


A CROWN OF ANTLERS

by Runeless



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ashe Duran - Freeform, Beauty and the Beast, Budding Talents, Chaos, Chivalric Tales, Destruction, Don't come here if you don't want spoilers, Embrace Chaos, Experience, F!Byleth, F/F, F/M, Fairy Tales, Foreseeing, Golden Deer, Got at least one reviewer gonna like that one :D, Grief, Growth, Hidden Talents, I made that a plot point, Love, M/M, Marriage, Mercedes von Maritz, Mercie is a sweetheart, Romance, Spoilers, TW: Blood, Wedding, Widow, answers, cause Marianne, change, every commoner a king, fear the deer, fight me, foresight, happy endings, is only Byleth, leaving a mark, let mercie say fuck, life - Freeform, old before thy time, spoilers for all routes, time the enemy, tw: body pain, tw: light gore, tw: sickness, tw: suicidal ideation, verdant wind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2020-10-17 10:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 76,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20619473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runeless/pseuds/Runeless
Summary: In the House of the Golden Deer, every student wears a crown of golden antlers.Some find that there is something more inside them, when they put that crown on.(Discovering yourself is most easily done in the free company of free folk.)





	1. Hilda: Heavy Lies the Crown

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my new series!
> 
> Fire Emblem: Three Houses is GOOD. It's GREAT. It's the BEST FIRE EMBLEM GAME. 
> 
> So now, I write this. It's a story about the Golden Deer, about Budding Talents, about discovering yourself. About choices.
> 
> Just a quick note: I address poaching students. Byleth in this setting is female, and she has poached these students: from the Black Eagles she has taken Dorothea, Lindhardt, Petra, and Ferdinand, while from the Blue Lions she has recruited Ashe, Ingrid, Annette, and Mercedes. There's a reason for it, too.
> 
> I intend to do a Budding Talent story for most characters, excluding those who I think would be a bit boring- Ignatz, for example, will not have a chapter, because his Budding Talent is Reason, and I can't think of a good way to make that real growth for him. Dude's always been smart.

**A CROWN OF ANTLERS**

**Hilda Valentine Goneril**

**Heavy Lies the Crown**

Life is not a series of choices _for_ things, as much as a series of choices of things you'd rather _not _do, Hilda thinks. She would rather _not _do any work, so she makes the choice to get others to do it for her. And she'd rather _not_ have to go back over their work, so she picks people who are good at the tasks she sets them. She'd rather _not _disappoint her family, so she doesn't make any efforts to stick out; acceptably average is okay, and best of all, it doesn't demand too much out of her, so that's what she goes with.

She has these thoughts while in the middle of getting suited up before a battle- bandits out on the beach, a band of shipwrecked pirates raising hell for the locals in the Leceister Alliance, a task her professor and her house leader both have decided is a good test of all of them. For Hilda in particular, it will be the first test of her newfound dedication to the art of making war while wearing a manmade turtle shell; this will be her first real battle in heavy armor.

The plate mail fits heavy and solid against her. The shield in her left hand weighs more than the armor does; the axe, by comparison, is probably the lightest thing she's wielding, and it's still heavy as lead. She supposes she ought to feel secure, but mostly, she just feels put-upon.

God. Hilda hates the armor. It's heavy, it's sweaty, it makes her hair stick to her in uncomfortable places, and moving in it is sheer torture. Even getting in and out of the suit is a burden that takes three people and half an hour, and she hates it.

Worse, the problems don't end there. Just to put it on, to be able to move in the armor once she has it attached, she has to exercise constantly, and eat excessively; she loves eating, but to sustain her new metabolism she has to be an all-devouring beast, and it takes up so much time that could be put to more constructive, laziness-based activities. Sleeping, for example; she misses the naps she used to take with Lindhardt, the lazy mage, and it's a shame that she has less time for naps, now that the former Black Eagle has come to roost in the antlers of the Golden Deer. She feels that deep and honest connection to the green-haired man that only the truly slothful feel with each other, those whose determined uselessness has reached the level of art.

The exercise is the worst part; she must work out, she must run, she must go until her muscles scream in pain and then push herself farther. Her and Ferdinand have been working out at, of all people, Raphael's command, the muscle-bound giant teaching his fellow House companions the best ways to work out, and Leonie is Raphael's cheerful drill sergeant, always pushing them to go farther, go further. Ferdinand does it without complaint, orange hair matted with sweat and face set in a determined grimace as he seeks to surpass Edelgard; Hilda does it with complaint, with extra complaint, with so much complaint that the constant flow of banter between her and Leonie is as much part of the workout as anything else... but she does do it, complaint or not.

The effects have been tremendous. She has gained three stone in weight, and all of it appears to be rock-hard muscle; Lorenz once appreciatively called her mighty, recently, and he was right. Even that bugs her, though, and not just because it was one of Lorenz' pointless attempts at flirting; it is about what it means when people look at her. She likes having these ripped-ass abs, but she misses being soft and useless, dainty and pointless. A woman built like Hilda is now is a woman people expect things from, they see her muscles and assign her competence in combat in their heads; the old Hilda was dismissed when people looked at the soft fat over her skin, missed the muscles underneath that let her swing her axe with deadly force.

Now it is clear that she is dangerous, it is obvious that she has great strength. She doesn't like that, it was easier when people didn't expect anything out of her.

And then there is the work she does that has nothing to do with the armor. The maintenance tasks she takes up. The endless lists of supplies she keeps. The constant oversight of her fellow House mates, somewhere between being a mother and a drill sergeant- keeping tensions calm, keeping people happy, making sure everyone's keeping up on studies and training both... it's _exhausting_.

And Byleth keeps adding new students, making her life even harder; Hilda knows more about the forms that transfer students than the faculty does, these days, roped into doing the work because Byleth kept doing it wrong, Teach more familiar with the dance of swords and magic than with bureaucracy and paperwork. Hilda has, more or less despite herself, become the busiest person in the Golden Deer; their self-proclaimed slacker is their most diligent, their most dedicated.

And in all honesty, Hilda should have expected it. Irony is the real defining trait of the Golden Deer; they are, all of them, something ironic. Lysithea is their youngest and, perversely, deadliest. Lorenz is their most obnoxious and kindest at the same time, half arrogance and half angel. Even the students Byleth poaches have some sense of ironic to them: Annette a mage from a land of knights, Mercedes, sweet, kind-hearted Mercedes, a dead-eyed archer, death with a bow in her hands. And Ferdinand is the best joke of all just by joining them, one of the highest-ranking Imperials coming to slum it with a bunch of Alliance bums, and surprisingly, delighted and happy for it.

So of course Hilda, so overly gifted with sloth, will end up as their great worker, their dedicated one.

She hates it, like she hates so much about her life these days. So much that she does are things that go against her natural sloth. So much.

But it's worth it. Someone has to protect Claude. Because, well, life is a series of things you'd rather not have happen. And as much as she hates the armor, and the work, and everything that goes with both... she'd rather _not _see Claude get hurt. She'd rather _not _see that so much that her hatred of the exercise and the sweat and the work... just doesn't mean anything compared to that. She will do it with a smile, and do it forever, if it means he won't be hurt.

The reason is simple, almost absurdly so. The secret is this: he sees her, he is the first person Hilda has ever met who sees right through her carefully-constructed personality to the woman she is inside, and, contrary to her greatest and most secret fears, he seems to like that woman, he approves of her, he likes her.

She hadn't expected that.

Oh, she's aware that she wears a constructed facade, and that someday, at least one person would see through it. But she's always been afraid that anyone that figured her out would hate her, or worse, find her boring; she knows she's kind of a stereotype, she's the little girl afraid of disappointing her family, the younger child whose older sibling is so cool that her own accomplishments will always pale in comparison. She's not really that unique or special, in the end.

But Claude... Claude seems to find something in her that Hilda has never been able to find in herself, he seems to see someone he likes and respects and, impossibly, _trusts_. He seems to trust her. In the Alliance, so full of politics and trickery and maneuvering, trust is a resource that cannot be measured, that has a value beyond all the petty metals humanity trades in; he trusts her, and it is such a precious thing that she has taken up the burden of being his second-in-command willingly. No one has ever trusted little Hilda Valentine Goneril before, no one has ever looked at her and said “this one, she's trustworthy, I can place my trust in her.”

No one's ever done that before, until now. Until Claude.

She wants to be worthy of that, she wants that trust he has placed in her to be rewarded, somehow, and so, untrained and incapable, she throws herself into the job. She knows she lacks Dedue's mighty loyalty and Hubert's shadowy brilliance; she has nothing on either the Duscurian giant or the Imperial snake. So this Deer hopes to make up for it with sheer dedication, with intensity of purpose; what she lacks in skill and talent, she will make up for in effort.

It is all she has, she is giving it everything she's got, but to offer it in return for this trust Claude gives her feels almost like a bargain, like she is somehow buying at a fair price something of tremendous worth, as if she is purchasing treasure at a fire sale for much less than its true value. And she so does love shopping, she loves it so much that she cannot help but be interested in this bargain, she cannot help but make this purchase.

If Claude is offering his trust, worth more than gold and jewels, and the price is nothing more than her own efforts, than she will thank him for the deal and purchase it without haggling.

It is a double-edged purchase, this trust. It lights a joy in her heart she has never known, but it places heavy weights atop her shoulders. Very heavy, indeed; Claude can hide his ideals from everyone else, but as he sees her, she sees him. This half-Almyran, this outsider, wishes only to be let in the door, to let _everyone _in the door, have everyone sit at the table and be part of the great feast. He would tear the world's borders down, so that no one is ever like him again- that there will never be another little Claude, not one thing or another, but allowed, at last, to be both. He hurts, but he takes his pain and forges it into will, and a desire to save those like him, the way he was never saved; she cannot help but admire it, this great dream, this magnificent ideal, personal trauma turned into public service.

They'll kill him for it. Fodlan is not kind to the idea and the Church is actively hostile. Even Almyra, which is a better land for that kind of thing- note that they have let Claude grow up and take part in his heritage, despite considering him a bit of a mongrel- is not sold on the idea. He will have so many enemies, and he is so... vulnerable. Archers always are. Death at a range, death that cannot be stopped, but if the enemy catches up to him...

Her heart catches in her throat at the idea. Claude, smashed to a hundred red pieces by hammer and axe, carved to torn shreds by sword and dagger. Claude, who so trusts her, taken away.

She'd rather not see that. She'd rather not see that more than anything, she hates the idea more than she has ever despised anything. She would do anything, give anything, to avoid that outcome.

So she takes up the armor, that there is a shield, between Claude and the world, that there is something immovable between him and his enemies, no matter how much she hates it. She takes up the burden of being his second-in-command, because he needs one, Goddess he needs one- he needs help. He needs her allegiance.

She hates it. She hates all of it.

But she hates the idea of him being hurt more, and life is just a series of things you'd rather avoid.

Because this work of the body and the mind, it is less than the work her soul will have to do if she must grieve Claude- if he is to die, the way it will hurt her- it will be worse than this. The work would be even harder.

She is still being lazy, because she would rather do this a thousand times than suffer the loss of him once; she can handle the physical and mental burden of doing this every day, but she could not carry the emotional burden of failing him for even a second.

So she heads out to war, clanking as she goes, and into battle, the shield Claude cannot carry, the sergeant to his officer, his most faithful one, in war and in peace.

( When this is over- when the Golden Deer run their vast herd triumphant over the flights of Imperial Eagles, and avenge the fallen Lions- Claude will leave for Almyra, to take it as King. And Hilda, whom he loves and trusts because- as he will tell her later- she can see inside him, as he can see inside her- will take her place in House Goneril, and the two of them will engage in one last scheme. It is a scheme that ends in a wedding, Claude and his Fodlan knight, Hilda and her Almyran king; a marriage that goes down in story and fable, that promotes the ideal of unity better than anything else they do, a love story that echoes down all the history of the world.)

(Someday, he will take her hand in his, and neither of them will ever let go.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my new series!
> 
> Fire Emblem: Three Houses is GOOD. It's GREAT. It's the BEST FIRE EMBLEM GAME. 
> 
> So now, I write this. It's a story about the Golden Deer, about Budding Talents, about discovering yourself. About choices.
> 
> Just a quick note: I address poaching students. Byleth in this setting is female, and she has poached these students: from the Black Eagles she has taken Dorothea, Lindhardt, Petra, and Ferdinand, while from the Blue Lions she has recruited Ashe, Ingrid, Annette, and Mercedes. There's a reason for it, too.
> 
> I intend to do a Budding Talent story for most characters, excluding those who I think would be a bit boring- Ignatz, for example, will not have a chapter, because his Budding Talent is Reason, and I can't think of a good way to make that real growth for him. Dude's always been smart.


	2. Marianne: Crown of Thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal Ideation. Marianne is pretty actively suicidal, pre-timeskip, and you have to deal with that when talking about her or writing her.

**Marianne von Edmund**

**Crown of Thorns**

Many people want their lives to be a fairy tale. Marianne doesn't understand those people. Her life _is _a fairy tale, after all, and it is a nightmare from which even sleep is only occasionally an escape; sometimes she dreams of the stories, and in each of them the last thing she sees before she wakes up in a cold sweat is the heroine's face, as she cuts Grandma from Marianne's stomach, as the sword pierces her heart, as her tower crumbles to dust with her inside it.

Everyone wants to be the heroine of a fairy tale. Nobody ever talks about what it's like to be the monster.

Her blood is a hot and living thing, bestial and alive. She feels it in her veins at all times, this mark, this Crest, a font of endless might inside her; endless power, too, but cursed power, power she cannot use for her own ends. She ruins lives because she exists; this she has been told, and this she believes, deep in her bones, the way one must believe things one has known since childhood.

When other little girls heard fairy tales, they saw themselves as the underdog protagonists; when she heard them, she knew her place was with the witches and werewolves, the vampires and ogres. Marianne the Monster. At one point, Ashe mistook her for a ghost, and though she never told him, she did laugh about it a little, afterwards, in private. He wasn't wrong, so much as imprecise; she _is_ the villain in a horror story, but she's not a ghost.

Not yet. It is her greatest fear, that she will die and it will _not _free her- that she will be forced to linger on. A ridiculous fear, to be afraid not of death but of life after death, to be terrified beyond words at the one reward most humans hope for. But then, she never was human.

She only feels human when she heals others, around animals- who do not know what she is, who seem immune to whatever curse her Crest bares- and when she looks on the man she loves.

-

The irony of her life- and her feelings for Raphael, who is so big, who takes such care not to hurt her- is that anyone observing would be reminded of Beauty and the Beast. And they would be right, except that they have put the wrong players in the wrong roles; Raphael is the Beauty. She is the Beast.

She cannot blame this imaginary observer the mistake, though. Raphael's face is a crag that attracts no one, and few view the bulging muscle of his body as beautiful. And Marianne, like all the best and most classic monsters, hides her true nature under a fair face and fair form. If you were just to see them, you would take the lithe woman for the Beauty, and the ugly man for the Beast.

But beauty is a factor of many things, and even the most base and ugly body can be redeemed by a good soul. And Raphael, unlearned and ill-mannered, somehow has the gentlest soul of anyone she has ever met. In Raphael is a man who can talk to animals with a carefree spirit, not bothered by who might be watching; in him, a man who loves his sister shamelessly, who weeps in joy for her triumphs and cries in sorrow for her travails. A pillar of endless support of her, Raphael is, who risks his life that she can be safe.

In Raphael is the dependable soul who will move anything, anywhere, at any time, who can be counted on for tasks both martial and mundane; she has seen him carry bookshelves at the monastery and wounded comrades on the battlefield, each without complaint. She has even had her own life saved, once or twice, by the big man, as he interposes the bulk and strength of his body between those he loves and harm. There are none of them who do not have some war story that is a variation on “and I would have died, but that Raphael saved me.”

Those moments make her chest ache, but in a kindly fashion, in a good way.

He is a hero out of the old stories, and she has never been so proud of herself- has never felt so good- as in those moments when she is able to heal him, to protect him in turn, as he protects them. In those moments, she forgets to hate herself, to hate the bloodlust that flows in her veins, that craves carnage and battle, because she is _saving him_.

And even when put to the ultimate test, Raphael passes. She had been walking by- she had not meant to overhear, was on her way to the stables to see sweet Dorte- when she heard Raphael's voice, and like moth to flame, moved closer, to hear Lorenz and him talking. Of dead parents, of responsibility, of a debt Lorenz was only recently made aware of that he has owed Raphael for years. Lorenz, trying to take responsibility, the delusional noble who nonetheless wanted desperately to do right.

And Raphael... forgave him. Forgave his family's role in his pain, in his torment. Marianne is not sure she would have the strength to do that, and to Lorenz's credit, he was floored by it; he told Raphael he would make a fine noble, and from Lorenz's lips, there is no higher praise possible.

But to Raphael, standing before the son of his parents' killer, it was just another day, just the right thing to do. He had his sister to think of, and others to think of, and he spares no thoughts for himself or revenge for the past, would sacrifice getting even for yesterday if it will buy a better tomorrow. A good man, a truly good man, that rarest of things.

Her self-sacrificing, heroic Raphael.

It is what entrances her. Fascinates her. He is so pure. So good. If humans looked like their insides, you could not look at Raphael without being blinded, Marianne thinks; could not see him, not without being consumed. It would be like standing before the sun.

She is in love with him. She is aware, on some level, that she should not be; but monsters are attracted to virtue and innocence, all plays and literature agree on that, and as a monster she cannot help but crave his kindness. She cannot imagine how she could not be, he sees her and... and he is so kind, he treats her as if she is something of value. This huge beast of Leceister is gentle with her, he calms his tongue and moves slower in her presence, because he knows that she is nervous around people, and he would be kind to her. It is a gift so precious she can barely believe it is hers, she has been brought to tears before by the sheer simple niceties of his presence, the things he does unconsciously. He learned her favorite snacks and keeps some for her, he has bought supplies to care for the animals and gifted them to her, he has been... he has been so sweet it aches. And he watches himself around her, moves slower, strives not to hurt or frighten her, to scare her shy and self-effacing personality. He treats her with respect.

He does not know of her burden- she has not found the strength to tell him yet, to warn him to get away from her, she cannot throw away his kindness even to protect him (more proof she is a monster)- but he treats her as if she matters, the way he treats everyone. As if she is something that matters, not trash to be thrown away or locked up.

And she is so hungry for that, to be cared about, to have someone think over what they are doing when it comes to her, to take her interests and wants into account.

But she is the Beast in this play. She is the monster. She will hurt him. Not today. Probably not tomorrow. But someday. Her very existence is a tear in reality's fabric, she is a mistake of the Goddess, who makes no mistakes save one- her.

Someday, her nature will hurt him, and she prays only that he is strong enough to survive. In ways, she takes some comfort in how strong he is, and sometimes- only sometimes- she very quietly fantasizes about him killing her; he would hold her, it is his way, he would hold her as she died, and it is a better death than she deserves. It would be a good way to die, and Marianne has spent so many years thinking of ways to die.

And yet... hidden somewhere... there is something else. A hope.

The story of Beauty and the Beast always has the Beauty redeem the Beast. If she truly is living one of those stories...

...She doesn't let herself think this way often. Mocks herself for it in her... lower moments, calls it delusion.

But every now and then, she has a beautiful dream, one more fairy tale, but it is not like the rest... it is one in which Raphael sees all of her, the monster that she is, and loves her anyway, and his love cures her, settles her, makes her a person and not a problem, and they live together in a small home and are happy all their days.

Sometimes, she has that dream instead of her nightmares, and awakes to the wonder of a good night's rest.

-

The battle at the Tomb had been a waking nightmare, one survived by her and all her friends. One she had surprised herself with, tearing a weapon from enemy hands in a fit of rage, her blood compelling her to act- and she was grateful for it, because she acted, Lindhardt and Annette are alive today. Her... her friends. They are alive. Lindhardt pokes too much at her wounds, Annette is a sweetheart, but they are both her friends, somehow. When ambushed, she and her fellow mages would have died, but that Marianne's Crest howled and she, following it, found strength she'd never had, pulled a spear from a man's hands, and killed another with it.

Because of that, her friends are alive. And they are her friends, they all are, somehow this entire House has become... hers. Dorothea her eternal rival in faith, Raphael always in the forefront of her mind, Igntaz a fellow gentle soul. She is part of this House, they accept her here, in this place. Her favorite depiction of the Beast bears antlers, so isn't that appropriate? Every monster needs a set of horns, and the Golden Deer get theirs for free.

Marianne the Monster, and for the first time, she's proud to be that way; if not for her Crest, her friends would have died. Many nameless terrors she can attribute to her Crest, many faceless disasters; but now she knows at least two people, by name and by face, who are alive because of it. And that weighs so heavy in the balance, it makes her feel like this is not as much of a curse as she thinks it is. It helps to banish the demons in her skull.

And the weapon she'd used- a spear... it gives her... an idea. Byleth had said, after the incident, that she wanted her mages trained in weapons. And Byleth is blessed by the Goddess, maybe they all are; to find the Sword of the Creator, and to wield it, to be granted holy purpose, to be acknowledged by Archbishop Rhea herself; the battle in the Tomb makes Marianne think, for the first time, that maybe she is not... not all bad. The Goddess would not let her partake of these glories if she was not, in some way, worthy of them.

And she could become more worthy yet, if she tried.

-

The armory is free and open today, which Marianne is grateful for. She would prefer to be alone for this.

She stands in the armory, looking at the weapon racks, and she ponders. Magic- particularly that born of faith- comes most naturally to her, and with Lysithea's help she's even learning the magic of reason- magic she can study on her own, locked away from others, where they will not be hurt. She likes magic; it is complicated, difficult, it makes her feel less like an animal and more like a human being to study it.

But the Professor demands they pick up a weapon, too. The axe calls to her, as do the gauntlets, call to that berserker savagery inside; but this lance...

She remembers the javelin in her hands, and she wonders.

Lances are the weapons of knights, and knights kill monsters. This is the weapon that is her enemy, that is her opposite. The lance is such a precise weapon. So very elegant. There is poetry in its workings; a single stab from the cultured, civilized knight, and the savage, overwhelming strength of the monster is undone. It is a testament to the triumph of society over barbarism, of gentleness and elegance over brute force and monstrosity. It is a weapon of humans, not monsters... and that makes her think.

She thinks... that maybe she could devote herself to this. So different from the howling battle she fears to indulge in. A lance is a fine weapon, a civilized weapon, despite its simplicity. The first human to kill with a spear had, in fact, partly invented civilization, by utilizing a stick and a stone to overcome humanity's lack of fangs and claws. A spear is the promise that mankind can overcome its nature, improve, evolve... become people, and not animals.

If she is a beast... then perhaps she can improve herself by taking up this first weapon. Maybe she can become a person, and not a Beast. Perhaps... perhaps it will civilize her, too. She can channel her Crest's fury into this elegance, she can dance delicately with a spear and still be a person, not a Beast, even as she uses her Crest.

She would not think this way, but that she has made so many friends here, who like her, who do not see the curse she bears... and the Goddess approves of them, of the three Houses only the Golden Deer have received the Sword of the Creator. She is approved of, and Lindhardt has been studying her Crest and says it doesn't make her a font of bad luck, and... and she finds she likes it, perhaps she is not cursed. Perhaps the Goddess does not hate her, perhaps the Goddess makes no mistakes and she is not one, either.

And she has that bright dream, of a small home with Raphael... that she cannot quite convince herself to give up. Some part of her wants to live, and for the first time since she can remember, that part of her is stronger than the part that wants to die.

And if she is to live, then she must improve. Perhaps her nature cannot be overcome; but also, perhaps, it can be. There is something free about the House of the Golden Deer, there is a spirit of liberation in it that has, at last, come to settle on her shoulders. Something brave, something that dares the eagle and mocks the lion, something that changes people. The antlers are a crown, and the Golden Deer makes every commoner a king or a queen, as they so choose, free to live as they desire, free to become who they want to be, free to... change.

And Marianne wants, more than anyone, to change.

So she takes up the first weapon, the weapon that moved humanity from beast to sapient, in hopes of following in that first hunter's footsteps.

( In time, she will realize that she is no monster, but just a person. There is no beast inside Marianne, just a person; and meeting her ancestor settles her questions, answers a few things. She will always carry her pain with her, such things never go away, but you can work around it; you can learn to live with it.)

( And, come war's end, she will find herself walking with determined feet up to a little inn, one hung with bird feeders and run by a muscle-bound Beauty, with a ring in her hand, and after a single question and a single answer, this particular Beast will, at long last, settle down and be at peace in her new home, with her husband at her side.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually the first thing I wrote for this story; Marianne's one of my favorites, and her relationship with Raphael comes off as so sweet. She deserves happiness.


	3. Lysithea: Pick Up your Crown with a Sword

**Lysithea von Ordelia**

**Pick Up Your Crown with a Sword**

Sometimes- when nobody is around, when she can stomach her terror of possible ghosts or spectres and head to the training ground at night- Lysithea picks up a sword, and she practices with it. Just a little.

It's hard. The blade is heavy and her body is too weak to really wield it, when she goes through the training stances and practice katas, she can never do more than one without feeling like she's dying. And she _is _dying, so that feeling is quite appropriate. She knows this is a risk- her heart is already so overtaxed- but she can't help it. And she hurts all the time anyway, what's a little more pain?

She doesn't tell the others much, but she can feel her body dying around her; she has read in books about how old people feel, and she is terrified to recognize some of that in her. Her Crests are straining her insides, they are aging her; in her fifteen-year-old veins runs forty-year-old blood. Should she reach her thirtieth birthday, it will be a testament to her will; but she will not see thirty-one, no matter what, even should her will be strong as the Goddess' own.

It's not fair. Sometimes, she lets herself think that, and once or twice, she has cried in the night- always quietly. No need to let the others coddle her, or think less of her- and she's convinced they do. Or maybe she's just paranoid. She wants, so badly, to be taken seriously, to... to not be bound more than she already is. Time wears on her skull like a rasp. To be treated as a child is too much burden on top of what she already bears.

It is why she hides this. Only Felix knows, stumbling on her late one night, and his reaction surprised her. The swordsman- and Goddess, has that title applied so well to anyone else before? For that is all Felix is, a hilt for his sword, he is literally a sword's man, an apparatus by which violence may be enacted- sees her trying, and he approves, and keeps it secret when asked. He seems to think she is trying to improve herself, and Felix always has respect for those who practice the blade, however poorly.

But for her... she does it because, on the inside, she thinks she was supposed to. In another life, the life she should have had, before they dipped deep into her blood and her bones and wrought a second Crest into her guts. She thinks she was meant for the blade, before...

Before the Crests...

She is the sole survivor of those experiments. She survived because she was unusually healthy and hearty. Ironically for a girl whose lungs now wheeze and whose joints ache, she is alive today because she was unnaturally tough and strong, when they began to cut and take from her, there was more for the Crests to eat up without killing her when they were implanted. It is why she lived and the... others died.

The others... she must not think of them, she cannot think of them. She must put them behind her. Pretend that... that she did not hear the things she heard, crying and whimpering and screaming. It is how she survives, how she is able to move forward under the weight of an impossible trauma. It is why she is so afraid of ghosts; a past that will not leave, that will make her face her dead. If there is anyone in the world who is haunted, it is her.

But she puts them out of her mind, and instead, ponders what was taken from her personally. The same strength and endurance that kept her alive during the tests was taken from her at their conclusion, sucked away by the mutant nature of the twin Crests she bears. What would it have been like, had she been allowed to grow up? She wonders how strong she'd have been without it.

Would she be like Catherine? Would she be some tall, broad juggernaut, would a sword have fit in her hand? It almost does now, even as this slim, broken thing. Sometimes, when she picks up a sword, she feels like... like this was what she was supposed to be, that the magic is an accident. That she was meant for a blade. The handle feels good in her palm, the extra weight natural, she knows how to move with a sword in her hand and not get cut. It feels... good.

Sometimes, when she swings it, she can feel the motions, the flow. She would have been graceful with it. She would have been beautiful to see. She would have been legendary.

But now, only the training ground will ever see even the flash of what she could have been.

She practices. Just a few things. Just... just a few, to tell herself who she could have been. She ends it all the same way, a single, simple training kata, just a tiny little thing, a few simple slashes and simple footwork.

Her joints ache with each step, her knees crack and pop like an old woman's, her lungs close tight as she performs the kata, perfectly executed, lovely as a dance. She could not do it again, not with her frail muscles and aching bones; but she could do it just this once, just right.

It exhausts her, but it also fills some deep-seated need. Some... acknowledgment of the woman she was supposed to be, who she will never be. Some tribute to what was stolen from her.

Some nights, when that feeling is overwhelming, she swings the sword with her pathetic arms, and dreams of the strong arms that were meant to be hers, of a body that did not hurt, of being the right height and weight instead of this shriveled and limping thing, and she falls to her knees and weeps softly into the training ground's sands.

-

Magic she studies. Magic doesn't care how broken her body is; she can kill an army with words spilling waterfall-heavy from her lips, when her arms would not kill a single soul. Doing the rituals isn't that hard, not so taxing, though her fingers still throb after too long casting in a day. It is just a reminder, that time is not on her side, that it is her enemy as much as it ever was Dorothea's, and it does not slow the mage too much.

And the magic is... comforting. Dark magic, elder magic, hardest of the three branches, comes easiest to her, and she thinks she knows why; when they had hurt her, it had been under brilliant, unnatural light, glare and gleam that seared her eyeballs and made her skull throb with pain, even as more pain blossomed in her belly where the knives scraped at her spine. At night, when she was thrown back into her cage, the darkness had hugged her close as a blanket, soothing and cool, where the scars on her body were fever-hot, the black soothing eyeballs scorched by white. In the darkness, no one hurt her; it was safe. Even now, she likes quiet and dark places, and feels just a little uncomfortable under the noonday sun.

So it does not surprise her that, when she speaks, the night answers. Darkness has always protected her. Hanneman is impressed, as is Byleth, in her strange, emotionless way; the oldest magic is hard magic, the most difficult to perform, and for centuries has mostly been the province of strange cults, dark bishops and dark mages, whose wild rituals mimic and half-remember formulas and patterns that existed pre-Seiros. Lysithea is a thundering prodigy, or so they think; she hasn't the heart to tell them yet that it's probably a side effect of her twin Crests, more than any natural ability.

Her natural abilities, after all, were towards muscular strength and bodily stamina; magic, for all that she rather likes it, is a second-best for her, a making-do with what what she has.

Still, magic... feels like it has... potential. Areas no one has studied before, because no one cared to try. She might be able to make a mark, even in the small time she has, with magic, might be able to create a legacy that will long outlive her shortened timespan... and Goddess, she is obsessed with legacy, she has so little time. She... she has to make her mark. She has to matter. Not just for herself, but for the... others. The ones who didn't make it.

Irony of ironies, halfway to death at the tender age of fifteen, she seeks to conquer eternity. She seeks to change the world, to make it so that, because she was alive, the future is different, the only kind of memorial that stands eternal.

She does not seek to be remembered, precisely; memory is a fickle and easily fooled thing. She seeks a more fundamental change, to add something to the world that is itself added onto, a field of knowledge previously unexplored, or some technology that changes the world.

That way, even if the name of Lysithea von Ordelia should pass into the most obscure dusts of history, the world will still remember her actions- because she lived, things will be different- and maybe it will be payment to the others, who did not live, her penance for being the oen that survived. She does it for herself and for them both.

That is her fondest wish, her deepest hope, and so she throws herself into her learning; she seeks to do in a week's time what takes others a month, in a month what takes others six, in half a year to accomplish a decade's worth of work. She has no time; she must make time, and the only way to do that is to speed up. You cannot gain more time, but you can do more faster, and it is close enough.

But even Lysithea's infinite willpower cannot sustain her frailness forever, and so from time to time she takes a break.

-

The breaks are not her idea, but Hilda's. Hilda, who professes laziness, who protests loudly that she does nothing... who watches them all, who keeps tabs on them, who somehow, by dint of unceasing effort, manages the impossible task of herding the Deer into something like order. Half mother, half older sister, half sergeant and so big in personality that she can be three halves all at once, Hilda had confronted her after finding her sleeping in the Library and ordering her to rest, once a week. To take two hours off.

Lysithea had protested furiously, up until Claude snuck up with his own supporting scheme. To Hilda's blunt stick of an order, he added the dangling carrot of Mercedes' sweets- and oh, Goddess, that was _cheating_, Lysithea had been so furious, even as she folded and gave up. Mercedes, sweet Mercedes, their stolen Lion, who could serve her desserts at the Goddess' own table; that was a bribe that sugar-loving Lysithea could not resist, her mouth salivated at the thought.

For every two hours she rested, Claude promised that he'd get Mercedes to make her a little something. And the fun part about Claude is, he's always true to his word; it's why his schemes and plans go so well, if he promises you something, he'll deliver on his end, the world's only honest trickster.

So far, the pattern had held; his words were true. Lysithea wasn't sure what he'd promised her- everyone was after Mercedes' cooking, her and Dedue had _waiting lists_ for people who wanted something made by them, the two titans of the kitchen- but somehow, Mercedes always had a little something for her, each week. Something different, each time.

Claude teased her each time he saw her with a little basket, but the teasing is friendly, and she finds she minds it less when Claude does it.

(It feels like... family. Is this what having a big brother would be like? Claude is so protective of her, even as he teases. Is this what her big brother would have been like, if he'd lived? She can almost remember the boy who should have been her big brother, she can remember the way his last breath rattled in his lungs as he died, and then they hauled her up onto the slab, to begin the process anew on her.)

This week's sweetness is a small batch of Almyran Delights, though Claude had laughed at their Fodlan name, told them the true word was _Lokum_. Gelatinized sweetness, dusted with icing sugar, the flavors a mixed batch of rosewater and lemon; the kind of thing you could spend all day stuffing your face with, a rare foreign treat. The little colorful cubes of yellow and red jostled in the basket as she closed it, grabbing a canteen of watered-down wine to wash them down with, and headed out to the training grounds.

-

The Knights of Seiros she passes all salute her, fist before and fist behind, as is proper Fodlan style. Students from other houses take note of the Golden Deer badge on her shirt and either give her a wide berth or follow her, hoping for some of the wonder to rub off on them. Students of her own house salute her, including those of the small mage squadron that had accompanied her into the Tomb, and wave excitedly, bragging after she passes of how they know her, and blowing their own accomplishments wildly out of proportion.

She sighs. It's been like that since the Tomb. She supposes that it really is kind of a big deal, though she is one with so many inner struggles and trials that her thoughts are mostly turned inwards. Still, she hears the way it has been described by other tongues, and sometimes, it catches her, that she was part of such great events.

_Did you hear? Somebody broke into the Tomb! _

_I heard they were going after the Prophet's bones!_

_Nah, I heard it from one of the Knights of Seiros who showed up to clean up, after the Deer wiped them out. They were after the Sword of the Creator- the very sword Nemesis once wielded!_

_The Sword of the King of Liberation..._

_ Their teacher wields it now! She's a descendant of Nemesis!_

_I knew there was something special about her!_

_Who stopped them?_

_The Golden Deer! They knew what was going on, and they set a trap for the bad guys!_

_Who even was it?_

_Some crazy cult, worships fire._

_Probably foreigners._

_Why didn't they tell anyone beforehand?_

_I asked Claude myself! He said they knew no one would believe them, so they just took care of it themselves!_

_Holy shit, that's awesome!_

_It was the Golden Deer officers, leading a bunch of other students! They defended the Church!_

_Hilda fought ten men at once, and not a scratch on her! _

_I heard Raphael picked up a horse and threw it!_

_I heard that Marianne pulled a guy's spear out of his hands and killed three men with it!_

_Marianne? Really?!?_

_And they fought the Death Knight! The guy who takes all those young girls!_

_Lysithea put paid to him, they said she walked up and grabbed his mask in one hand and blew his head off with one spell!_

The rumors spin the story madwise, even as some details are close to the truth. It had been one man Marianne had murdered with brute strength, saving herself and her fellow mages; and Hilda had fought only three men, not ten, though she had, in fact, emerged unharmed. All the damage Hilda had taken in that fight had been from a mage determined to cook her inside her armor, a mage whose spells died sputtering on the arrow shaft Claude had sent straight to his throat.

And Raphael had not thrown a horse, just a man, though he'd managed to send an entire group of archers reeling with the man as a bludgeon. He'd torn three separate muscles doing it, too; Lysithea could still hear Mercedes cussing him out, the one thing that could provoke the gentle medic to anger being risking one's health needlessly for, as she'd put it, “ a fucking stupid stunt.”

For his part, Raphael had been properly ashamed, and admitted to having gotten caught up in an adrenaline rush. He'd also been _really _tired of those stupid archers shooting him; the shots kept hitting his armor, but he'd known it was only a matter of time before they found flesh, and he'd had the idea, and... well. No one thought at their best during combat.

And as for herself... the Death Knight.

(Byleth hurt, bleeding behind her; of course Teach had fought back, of course she had tried to save them from the Death Knight. Byleth, Teach. Saint and hero. Dying now, dying behind her, but Lysithea had an idea- the Death Knight's power was of darkness, but so was she, if anyone here could hold him back, it was her; she had to bet that she could speak stronger to the shadow than his scythe could. She had to believe she could do it, to save Teach- and it wasn't like Lysithea risked much, just a few years of life. For Teach, who believed in them, it was a small sacrifice.)

(And wonder of wonders, as she spoke, as she _screamed _the words, the darkness grew teeth like spikes, all aimed at her enemy in a predator's grin, and the Death Knight was thrown back into the abyss.)

No, she'd sent him reeling, but he'd left out of amusement; he'd left because he wanted to see her grow into a real challenge. She could still recall his amused tones, deadly baritone, pleased reverberations through that skull mask. He'd be back. He'd be back, and he'd be after _her_, specifically.

The thought is... oddly pleasing. She likes the acknowledgment, even as she knows how dangerous he is. To have such an opponent recognize her... well, at least the Death Knight doesn't treat her as a kid, he's got that going for him, if nothing else.

And she liked testing herself. Perhaps in another situation, where Teach wasn't hurt. Lysithea doesn't mind risking herself. Just her and him, fighting, determining which of them is the true lord of the night... that would be wonderful. Just her spells and his scythe.

His scythe... he'd used his magic through it. More of that strange thought percolates in her head. What if she could channel magic through her sword?... She cannot be who she was meant to be, but she could be something anyway, she could still be... something amazing. This could be the mark she leaves on history.

Is she not a Deer? Straighten your broken crown, Lysithea; there's work to be done.

So, renewed, she goes to the training ground, to eat and watch. And for the first time, as she observes others train, she watches, observes, tries to figure out how a soldier might cast a spell with a blade.

It is watching Felix- of course- that gives her the eureka, as he bows to his enemy with a flourish, and it reminds her of the swish of a magical wand.

And just like that, it clicks. The thing she feels on the field when she does her katas, the way things just _fit _in her hand- it's the movements. The irony is that she must work _backwards, _she must make this _bigger. _Spellcasting is a series of words and movements, and all magic research works towards lessening the number of movements, shortening the number of vowels, and making the movements more subtle. She must oppose it, she must work _up._ A step with the foot can substitute for a flourish of the wrist- a step back can be a withdrawing of a hand- the slash of a sword, the last word in a set.

It will always be a magic of brute strength, but Lysithea has enough brute strength to lift a mountain; it will work.

It will work.

She quits her break an hour early, and pays for it with two weeks without Mercedes' bounty; but she calls it fair enough. This will be her triumph to the world.

This will be how she reclaims herself.

-

It takes two weeks. At two weeks' end, she has a theory; in two days, she has a working hypothesis. There is a hint there- just the tiniest- a way to make a sword stronger, to turn even her feeble blows deadly, if the edge behind them be sharpened by sorcery.

It exhausts her. It tires her. It exhilarates her. She cannot be the great juggernaut she was meant to be, but she can still swing a sword hard enough to cut a man in half.

She asks no one for help. This is _her _contribution to history, this is _hers_. She is tempted to ask Lindhardt, but at day's end, this is something she must do herself.

It takes her three weeks of practice to get it down; it is just a simple slash, just a heavy-handed blow with the sword, backed up with witchery. Even that is exhausting, tires her.

But eventually, it works. Night sharpens the sword to a razor's edge. It comes just as Byleth's order comes down, that even the mages of the Deer must wear weapons.

Perfect. As her own promise to herself- and because, in the life she could have led, this would have been hers- she starts wearing a sword. The others quirk eyebrows, but most say nothing, see in her furious glare a challenge none are brave enough to meet; Felix alone, who has never once cared what others thought of him, comments, and it is a non-verbal approval that consists of no more than him raising a toast to her at lunch.

She keeps that with her, that acknowledgment, from one saint of swords to a mere apprentice, and does not feel so silly to have the sword strapped to her anemic side.

(Even later, when things end, and Felix is a rumor of a mercenary in distant lands, she keeps that approval in her heart.)

Besides, is she not a Golden Deer? They are the house of outcasts and freaks, youngest and least of the three great houses of Garreg Moch; and she is the youngest of the students here, though she will be damned before the Goddess before anyone calls her least. It is fitting that she do something unfitting, that the mage of the Deer should also be their swordsman. It's the Golden Deer, the only consistency in the third house is being inconsistent. Fear the Deer, and praise chaos; only in the Golden Deer would a mage wear a sword.

It takes her another two weeks to learn to compensate for the weight at her side, to work it into her movements, but it is a source of endless morale for her, to have it on her; her own little victory in the face of death. It cannot take the sword from her entirely.

She keeps up her practice of it, though in times to come, she almost never has excuse to use it. Time spent drawing the blade is time that could be better spent spitting spells, and Lysithea is a practical person, in the end; it is only in the worst fighting, the absolute thickest of it, that she runs out of time and magic both, that she is so spent that she has no choice but to draw the blade.

But it does happen. And when the press grows so close, Lysithea is in the front of it with her troops, swinging her sword, and her magic is such that even iron can cleave bone and flesh, despite the fact that her hands tremble as she swings. She does not die, as so many mages in her position would, but instead slices through the press, and the others talk about it later, about how magnificent she looked; and she is pleased, she blushes and accepts their praise of her. It's... nice.

And that gives her an idea, though it takes her til the war's end to implement it.

( She will never tell the others why she wears a sword at her side, even as a Gremory, master of magic. Hanneman will save her- bless the professor, bless his obsession, and bless his sister, in whose memory Hanneman will destroy all Crests, free all slaves who suffer the curse of blood- and she will take her place in history as the great swordswoman and mage both, who combined the arts, who turned sorcerous swordplay into a deadly dance. Her gift to future generations, not a new branch of swordplay or a new type of magic, but both at once, and her legacy will be secured.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet Lysithea, whom time presses on so hard. Mighty Lysithea, who rises above, Saint of Shadows! The one weapon even the Death Knight cannot withstand.


	4. Claude: Uneasy the Head on Which the Crown Rests

**Claude von Riegan**

**Uneasy the Head On Which the Crown Rests**

Bows are the weapons of the Alliance, and it's a good thing Claude likes using them; he's enough of an outsider without wielding some strange weapon. The Leceister Alliance is, to its credit, the least racist of the three nations of Fodlan- they have to be, they have too much contact with the outside world to totally believe the Church's words of fear- but “least racist” is the world's worst measurement, it is the least helpful accolade imaginable. Least racist implies some level of continuing racism, after all.

So Claude takes up a bow, to reassure those who see him that yes, he is an Alliance man, just like them, no matter that his skin is shades darker, or that there is the lightest lilt of Almyran on his tongue when he speaks in the Alliance's language.

He's not the only one; he's seen it in his fellows, those who are, like him, descendants of Almyra and Fodlan both, who live in the liminal places of the Alliance. They all do little things to blend in, though all it takes is looking at their skin to realize the truth, and the blending in isn't enough to deflect every cruelty. He's heard every variant of nasty comment others could imagine, and many they could not, and more than once it has escalated to violence; even a noble birth doesn't shield you from everything, and people in Fodlan have a certain predisposition to violence anyway.

Probably comes with worshiping a warrior woman as a saint, Claude assumes, not that he'd share such an observation with them for fear of starting a fight. Seiros struck him as rather less benign than they seem to think she was; benign souls aren't generally known for their ability to kick ass, nor do they establish militaristic churches and orders of knights. He'd almost admire her for it- she changed the world, the way he hopes too- but for the fact that she is responsible for his pain; she is the one who said to close the borders, who first shut the world out.

So instead of admiration, he feels irritation and some hate towards Seiros, because she is why he is an outsider. She was the one that closed the doors. Which is a horrible shame, really; he loves Almyra, just like he loves Leceister. He loves them both, and he would open the door Seiros closed, he would kick the saint's lock wide open, to show both how much they could learn from each other.

He wants Leceister to see the fire rituals- he thinks they'd like them, they are a free-wheeling and freedom-loving folk, too, and the laxer spiritual traditions of Almyra would fit them better than the mighty Church's heavy strictures. And the dances! Oh, the joyous dances of Almyra would be a hit in the golden lands, should anyone get past their origin, would find a home in the bright and chaotic hearts of the Alliance.

It goes the other way, too. He wants Almyra to see the way Leceister builds, he's never seen architecture like this in his desert homeland, which tends towards the flat and practical; Leicester builds _art _in its homes, in the soaring cathedrals and sweep of the masonry he sees beauty here he had never seen before. He would have that art in stone spread to Almyra. He wants Leceister to bring its art and music east, just as Almyra will bring its technology west; to trade beauty and inspiration for irrigation and metalworking, glories in art for glories in engineering, each system to give to each. Benefits each could see, if they but opened their eyes and their hearts to each other.

And they should, there is no good reason they should not. They're all just people. He should not have to wield a bow just to appease Leceister, and should not be ashamed if he wants to take up an axe. And he does want to take up an axe, fearing only... the message it would send.

All one had to do was look around, and see that choice of weapon was often less personal than it was national, a marker of identity. Behold the Blue Lions, and their lances, shining in the sun. Lances, traditional weapon of Faerghus. Even Ingrid and Ashe, the Lions who went from predator to prey, their two ex-pats, wield lances in the House of the Golden Deer. Admittedly, it is _not_ traditional to wield them as Dimitri does, half-quarterstaff, half club, but Dimitri is so unnaturally strong that he can make it work anyway.

Behold the Church soldiers, the swords in their hands. Swords are the traditional weapon of the Church; even their holy prophet, Seiros, wielded a sword, and swords show up in all their stories- and it feels like half the Relics are swords, too, though that can't be right. Holy weapons, refined, gifts of the Goddess. Even Byleth's holy blade is a sword, though one that appears to have been made out of someone's goddamn spine.

Adrestia doesn't really have a traditional weapon, unless you count magic itself; physical weapons are used, but magic is preferred. Edelgard may have an axe, but her favored weapons are spells of fire and death; no one could mistake her for anything but an Adrestian. Even Lindhardt, who has come to the Deer because he prefers their looser structure, is a warmage at heart, for all that he abhors violence the most of any of them (excepting, perhaps, Dorothea, who takes his side in these matters often.)

But axes... axes alone are a symbol of Almyra. Of his home, where he hopes one day to reign as King. A weapon chosen for its power, to fight against wyverns, where you needed one blow to kill, because you would not get a second blow. And once the wyverns were tamed, and men could ride the skies, the axe had become so ingrained that men simply learned how to use it from wyvernback. And it's useful for that, everybody has to admit it; backed with a wyvern's dive, a good axeman can take the head off a man in full plate without stopping. Power married to purpose, and useful to its task.

Claude loves archery, and it will always be his preferred weapon, but he would not mind a second weapon. He would not mind some brute force to back up all his scheming. It would be good to have raw power to fall back on if all his cleverness and words fail and it must be put to a test of steel. There's something practical about an axe that calls to him; a weapon once made to fell trees, put to murderous use by some human somewhere who, lacking any other weapon, looked at their woodcutting axe and had an idea.

A good one, too, one that has lasted all the centuries to this day. It cuts through armor, it hacks through shields, there is nothing that can stand in the way of a good axeman, especially if they're clever and accurate enough to overcome how unwieldy the things are- and Claude has always been clever. It would give him something to cling to, a fallback, another card in his deck of tricks- and that is never a bad thing, he has never been hurt because he has too_ many _tricks.

And... and at day's end, he must start somewhere, with his dream. He must begin to unite the cultures, and to do that, he must be brave, and be a man _under_ both and _of _both. And this House, these Golden Deer... might be the best place to start. This disparate herd, who he is learning to care for, are... odd. There is something in the air here, or perhaps in the water, something that marks them, that makes this last and least House... special. It makes Claude feel... liberated.

A spirit of freedom, maybe, or some laughing son of chaos, who has taken up residence amongst them, squatting in their antlers like a bird in branches; maybe even a woodland fae that has, impossibly, proven friendly, benevolent, despite the leanings of its sadistic kind.

Maybe even the Goddess herself, who his own readings indicate had a bit of a sense of humor, which her humorless prophet had done her best to stomp out- but he likes that idea, it fits, that the very Goddess these solemn Fodlans worship would look on the Deer and, laughing, grant them Her blessing, chuckle in amusement at the irony that a House of commoners and merchants and Almyrans would be the only one she would ever sanctify.

_Something_, at least, that watches over them, that encourages them, that guides them to shed their old horns and grow new ones in their place.

He sees it in the way people change in this House, in the way they were the ones who got Byleth over the mightier Houses, the way they seem wrapped up in so much that goes on here. The Deer have risen high, and while the Lions and Eagles spar, it is the Deer who have stood before Rhea and reported their successful defense of the Tomb, who have found the Sword of the Creator, who have already begun the great act of serving the Archbishop. It is the Deer that the Knights of Seiros give respectful nods too, no longer merely students- not anymore, not after gaining Rhea's personal attention. A mantle of respect, to this little House, that no others have earned.

And earned it was- he remembers the Tomb. He remembers the Death Knight, Byleth broken by thunders before him, because of course Teach had tried to save them from the beast. Of course she had, and his heart had pulped in his chest when he saw how casually the great warrior struck her down. Then little Lysithea, so small, proving so impossibly powerful- the way the shadow had leapt to save her, the darkness growing teeth that it might take bites out of her enemies.

Little Lysithea, their deadliest, who cast a spell in a language that sounded like black holes whispering, whose hands danced through patterns with the elegance of flying ravens. Whose magic, spikes of shadow- glorious shadow, had night ever looked so good?- sent the Death Knight reeling back, _laughing_... and then he'd left, claiming he would see her again when she had “matured.”

Lysithea, staggering, hair stuck to her from sweat, a thin trickle of spit down the side of her mouth, breathing hard- glorious in victory. The entire fight had stopped at the sight, and a few of the masked ones had even screamed in horror, that their great champion could be hurt bad enough to leave.

The fight had gotten more desperate after that, when it resumed a moment later, the enemy no longer treating the group of children as a joke, but as a serious threat. Claude and Ignatz had spent it dancing between pillars, bows in hand, in tandem with each other on a pattern of load draw release _move, _always move, keeping stone between them and the foe, listening as the stone was chipped by enemy arrows or scorched by enemy spells, things that would have found them if they stayed still.

The enemies were just masked faces glimpsed in the seconds they were out of cover, nightmarish flashes of color that were barely there in the torchlight, dying in the dust of eons as they disturbed this sacred place with mundane combat.

Raphael and Hilda ran interference, moving with them, throwing back any attackers who pressed forward, shields in the shape of human beings; in-between his own attacks, Claude caught glimpses of their desperate battle, Hilda's axe tracing gory arcs in the air as her shield kept back the press and Raphael slugging it out with bladed fists, each blow resounding with the snap of bone and wet crunch of flesh.

Claude remembers the desperate sound of Lindhardt screaming for help as he, Marianne, and Annette, sitting in the back and hurling spells, were ambushed from the stairs and suddenly stuck in the middle of combat. The sight of Lindhardt sticks with Claude- the mage stumbling back, but still casting- still _healing, _he had thrown life into a bleeding Raphael even as his own death approached him, for Lindhardt was determined to be a healer and not a killer, hated having blood on his hands.

Equally gentle Marianne had proven different, though, had saved them with a sudden burst of screaming rage that saw her rip a spear from an enemy and hurl it bodily through another, an act that paralyzed her opponents long enough for her to finish a spell that froze the blood in their bones to ice, a spell she did not cast so much as _shout_.

The rest is a blur with a few frozen moments he remembers, desperation the main emotion in him as they raced to stop the masked mage from opening the sarcophagus, a race on a timer none of them could see but felt on instinct was not long, not long at all. The scenes hang frozen in time, and he has no idea when they happened at all; like picking raindrops out of a storm, to separate these images into some coherent timeline.

A vision of Dorothea with something empty in her eyes, moving mechanically, resetting broken bone and healing and killing with equal aplomb and no emotion at all, less even than what Byleth displayed, lithe movements a dance as she flitted from group to group, going where she was required. Petra spitting a mouthful of her own blood in the eyes of an enemy swordsman to give herself the edge she needed. Ashe and Ingrid, cornered by some behemoth in armor, saved by the burning crackle of magic as Annette turned her flamethrower hands to the task of rescuing them, as Marianne had once rescued her.

Ferdinand, Leonie, and Lorenz, the trio dancing with a knot of swordsmen, spears moving in formation like lashing snakes, each blow mortal, and their former Eagle running ahead of them so that his heavier armor could take the blows that the others could not withstand. Hilda burning, that had been the worst, his Hilda afire, until he put an arrow into the mage's throat, and then two more, into both his eyes- a rage that flickered through him like a thunderbolt, eased only when Lindhardt, recovered, put gentle hand to Hilda's forehead and her scarred flesh was reknit.

Mercedes, and a strange look on her face, staring at where the Death Knight had been, the bow in her hands slack for just a second, before she turned back to the fray.

And at the end, of course, the masked mage, the Sword of the Creator, and Byleth wielding it, recovered thanks to Lindhardt's healing, putting paid to the last of their foes.

So much happened then, so much; and each of them proved worthy, they all came alive out of that desperate battle in the dark- wounded, not a one of them unbruised or unhurt, but alive, alive to see the dawning of the next day.

A miracle. Nothing less can he call it than that, born either of random luck or the eyes of some distant Goddess.

But the real miracle had been the others, seeing the way they celebrated that surpassed boundaries of race and nation- Ingrid clapping Ferdinand on the back and complimenting him on his heroics, Marianne blushing as she was thanked by breathless Annette, Petra jokingly comparing muscles with Raphael and Hilda, Lindhardt and Mercedes somber with Dorothea, who was half-exuberant and half-trembling on the inside. Byleth, wielding the Sword of Fodlan's Creator, chatting with him, Almyran and outsider, comparing notes and shaking hands.

It had nearly brought him to tears. _This_ is the unity he has dreamed of. For just one moment, in all the stream of time, there was true _unity _here; a glimpse of the dream he pursues. For just a moment, there were no commoners in the Golden Deer, and no nobles either, no Almyrans and no Fodlans; just kings and queens, all of them royalty, all of them equal in dignity and respect, their heads adorned with crowns of antlers. For just a few seconds, he was blessed to be emperor of a coalition of kings and queens, and they each had earned a seat at the table of good fortune.

It feels like... a kindness. As if whatever patron watches over the Golden Deer had chosen, for his good deeds, to grant him a single glimpse of the golden future he so desires.

That night, just for himself, he performs a small Almyran ritual of thanks to that being around a tiny campfire, and on a whim, gives thanks as well to the Goddess whose sword Byleth now wields. A Goddess who probably isn't there, who if she does exist might hate his heathen and heretic gratitude... but, given the Sword on Byleth's back, and the miracle of the Tomb, he thinks, perhaps, that this may be the first prayer in centuries that will reach her, that can cross the infinite distance between the mortal and the divine.

(Byleth and Sothis feel something that night, a distant taste of foreign lands and foreign fire- and _gratitude_, thanks so strong it wakes the tiny ghost from her throne, and the two share in the awe of it, and wonder what it means, though neither shall ever know.)

And, two days afterwards, he finally has the willpower to take up an axe, when it is time to train.

-

Hilda sees it, and gets it, and immediately takes steps to protect him. She stands in front of him and says, a little too loud, that she's glad he took her up on her offer to duel with axes today- and by all that is or is not, has anyone ever _seen _him like she does? Has anyone ever known Claude so well, and been so on his side? She saw his fear, and moved to protect him. It makes him dizzy, weak, it makes his chest ache in a good way; he has never had anyone so concerned with him before, who cared so much, who cared to _see._ Hilda, ever-faithful, who sees him and trusts him, and he does not know why; but his gratitude is beyond all measure.

He doesn't know what reward would be commensurate with her kindness, cannot conceive what that treasure must look like, but he hopes he will be able to give it to her someday, to reward her all her services and decencies. It is the least he can do, for her kindness.

So Hilda provides a cover, and safe in the shadow of her shield, he practices. As things stand, he is able to fight her in practice- he loses, of course, too inexperienced, and his emotions in too much of a roil- but then Raphael offers to help teach him, seemingly oblivious to the implications.

Seemingly, it turns out, because Raphael comments on it, asks Claude if he has any Almyran training to share with his fellow axeman; but the comment is not an insult, just a question, and he shrugs at the poor answer Claude gives, and they train as any two people of Fodlan would, Raphael soon getting him to laugh with strange anecdotes about his own failings in trying to fly on a wyvern. He is hilarious without quite meaning to be, Raphael is, and he seems to miss the implications when he mentions a pegasus let him pet her- a pegasus, who usually reject men on sight and definitely on touch, letting the great slab of a man pet her.

The pegasus could sense what Claude now knows about the blonde-haired titan, that he is a gentle and kind soul, trustworthy- he could be one of the first men to ride a pegaus, should he go for it. He is too calm and sweet to abuse the power, and the sacred beasts know it instinctively, trust him, the way they trust few.

If all men on the planet were like Raphael, Claude thinks as they train, there could be peace all over the world, and schemes and plans like his would never need to be used.

And thus the first day passes without incident. His heart beats a little slower. He had been afraid of... well, there'd been a lot wrapped up in it, mostly things he feels a little ashamed to think of his fellow Deers now. Perhaps the Lions, definitely the Eagles... but not the Deer. Not these strange and free folk, these kings and queens, whom he is blessed to lead.

Days turn to weeks. Leonie likes training against him, to figure out how better to best axe wielders- everyone knows that lances do poorly against axes, too easily wounded, hacked away, greater reach losing to greater brute force. It helps Claude learn his own advantages.  
  


Byleth, of course, simply beats his ass, swords just a little more maneuverable than his axe, a little deadlier, and Byleth herself something like death on legs; Ashen Demon, they say, and he can see it, Byleth moves like she can see exactly what he's going to do. And her face! Byleth's total lack of expression is her greatest weapon; his teacher is terrifying, he has seen her with blood slopped all through her face and no reaction, none at all. Only Dorothea in the worst of it does that, and it's more obviously a defense mechanism for the songstress, who fears what war does to her; Byleth is simply like that, unaffected by all the world around her.

A strange one, his teacher is, and he is not the only one who knows it. He is, after all, not the only one to catch her standing still sometimes, having a conversation with someone who isn't there. Something broken in her, or- more worryingly- something _else_ going on, just another secret in this monastery for him to ferret out.

(A whisper of a name on her lips at those times- Sothis? Who is this that Byleth speaks of, who shares the name of Seiros' Goddess, what is going on there? Secrets and secrets, the whole world a pile of secrets he must uncover before he can get his great plan rolling- and Byleth feels like a key, it feels like if he sticks with her she will eventually open every lock for him. Yet another reason he is glad Teach signed on.)

Lorenz, impossibly, thinks he's trying to prove his superiority over him. Lorenz, who is somehow both the most intelligent man and the _dumbest _son of a bitch Claude has ever met, sees Claude, standing with an Almyran axe in his half-Almyran hands, and his first thought is not “foreign barbarian” but instead “he chose axes to defeat lances, because I use a lance!”

He has, impossibly, accidentally, used his arrogance to cross over into acceptance. Claude would bless the man if he wasn't laughing so hard. Lorenz is weird, he thinks fondly as he laughs- as he sees Leonie glance over at the preening man with fond irritation, the same thought on her lips as is in Claude's mind.

Lorenz, for his part, simply stands up straighter under her scrutiny, utterly unconsciously, the same way Leonie stands up straighter when Lorenz walks into a room.

He wonders if they get it, if they know why they do that- neither of them are particularly self-reflective people, so Claude wouldn't be surprised if they didn't, if they could not put together why they go on patrol together so often, or why they spend so much time together. Lorenz, so hung up on the difference between commoner and noble, seems to have unconsciously accepted Leonie as his equal, and Leonie, who admires only competence, seems to have accepted that Lorenz is competent despite himself, and neither seem to realize what they are building up to.

Claude hopes it works out for them. He hopes that Lorenz can get over himself enough to get what he wants, and that Leonie can relent in her harshness enough to get what she wants, too. He might have to help them, or at least, make the offer known that he is available to help; sometimes people just needed someone to talk to.

Ferdinand is a fine opponent, and tells him how Edelgard fought with her axe- a font of knowledge on the topic of Edelgard is Ferdinand, but it feels different than Leonie and Lorenz. Not love, precisely, more... admiration, and envy. Rivalry, Claude eventually names it; Ferdinand had wanted to be Edelgard's rival, but she had ignored him, turned him away; probably why he had come to the Deer. Rejection aches, even when it's not about romance.

Though given the way he regards Petra, and the way she looks at him, perhaps these errant Eagles had stumbled onto romance here in the Herd. Claude wishes them welll; the Tomb made Deer of them all, and he no longer distrusts their poached brethren. They stood with them in the Tomb. That makes them kin enough to him.

In time, he will train with all of them, and become learned in both bow and axe. He begins to become a man of both. Two weapons, for the Golden Deer's leader; a bow for his mother, from the Alliance, and an axe for his father, from Almyra- and it will, at last, be time to begin.

(Claude will be crowned thrice in his life. The second time, he will lead the Alliance, the weakest of Fodlan's three nations, to tremendous victory over its foes- he will take this David nation and slays the Goliath empires all around them, with himself as sling and his friends as the stones. The third time, he will lead Almyra, a land already stuffed with greatness, to new heights of glory, and establish a reign that will be spoken of by scholars millennia after all his bones are dust.)

( And all this began with his first crowning- with becoming head of the Golden Deer, in that little classroom in Garreg Moch, and the lessons Byleth taught him as he wore that crown of antlers, that will serve him so well when the antlers are replaced with silvers and golds and jewels.)

(In that classroom was Claude the schemer reborn as Claude the King, and the uneasy head under the crown calmed, and taught to be at peace with itself; and he takes that wisdom with him into the future, a future that will see Almyra recover the conspirator's technology and put it to more heroic use.)

( And when Almyra, centuries down the line, plants a flag on their planet's moon as a sign of progress, it will have two golden antlers on it, and the entire world shall be crowned with antlers.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, Claude was fun to write. The best House leader, the golden child- the best.


	5. Ferdinand: To be Worthy of the Crown

**Ferdinand von Aegir**

**To Be Worthy of the Crown**

The sun is shining over Garreg Mach, birds are singing, and Ferdinand von Aegir is strutting towards the training hall.

There exists no other word for it- the young man struts, proud as a peacock, showing himself off to all and sundry. His armor shines, and he takes glory in that shine, lets everyone see him, and the gold and brown painted on his shield's front.

For the recent rumors are true; Ferdinand von Aegir, son of the highest noble of Adrestia- higher now, with the Seven and their coup, one could argue that Ferdinand even outranks Edelgard in practice, despite being lower in the formalities- has changed his House. Change, he finds, is good, it has been terribly good to him.

From the proud Eagles, first and mightiest of the Three Houses, he has fled, straight into the arms of the Deer- the last and least of Garreg Mach's Houses, just as the Leceister Alliance is the last and least of Fodlan's nations. And he's... happy for it. He's glad he listened to Byleth, when she came asking him to come.

His father is enraged, but Ferdinand had never cared too much for the ignoble man's opinions, then or now, and ignores the letters his father sends.

It's easy to ignore those letters when he sees the way the Knights of Seiros look at him. There is _respect _there, genuine respect, that he has never had before; his former House are still just students to the locals and to the Knights, but after the Tomb, the Golden Deer have transformed into something special- direct servants of Seiros, who defended holy ground from defilers when none others were even aware such an attack was coming. The Deer are no longer just students, but kin to the Knights... if not more.

After all, is the Sword of the Creator not the mark of divinity? Is Byleth's bloodline not proof of Her glories? Ferdinand is one of those who believes Byleth to be a descendant of Nemesis; he knows that history records no children for the man, but is that not itself proof of miracles? Nemesis had a child, and it has carried down, all the long years, to Jeralt... and to Byleth.

And from Byleth to Ferdinand, which lights a joy in his heart; all Ferdinand has ever wanted is to be _better_. It is why he has always made an effort to listen when he was criticized, so that he might improve himself. A man is a poor judge of his own character, a truth his father taught him by accident, when Ferdinand noticed the gulf between the man's words and the man's actions. It is why he loves change; to change is to gain the possibility of _improvement_.

It was that love of change and growth that, once, led him to seek out competition with Edelgard, a rival who would be worthy of him, someone who impressed and fascinated him... but he didn't like thinking about that, even if it _had _led to him joining the Golden Deer.

Still, those thoughts intrude, as he reaches the training hall.

-

The problem was this: she had rejected him.

You can be rejected for a lot of things. Love, most classically, but that wasn't Ferdinand's trouble. Ferdinand hadn't been in love with Edelgard, but he _had _dreamed of competing with her. He had been enthralled with that idea, of competing with someone. It answered that call inside him, that demanded he be the best he could be; a sword needs a whetstone to sharpen it, a mind needs books, and a soul needed a rival, or it would be dull forever.

The question, then, was this: as the highest noble of the kingdom, who could be his rival?

The answer was obvious: Edelgard von Hresvelg, the Emperor-to-be. He'd thought himself brilliant when he first had the thought. Who else could either of them ever struggle against? His family had resources enough to need fear no Emperor, the same going for Edelgard; anyone else would be too intimidated by their status to give an honest accounting of themelves. But the two of them, now... they were of a height with each other. They could push each other to excel.

Edelgard had initially dismissed him, but that was fine. He tried to be subtle, and subtle for Ferdinand involved directly asking Hubert to a tea party.

He should, perhaps, have always known he'd end up going to war in a very loud suit of armor. Subtle is not something he's ever been.

Hubert, somewhat nonplussed, had agreed, and that was how he'd begun his... relationship with Edelgard's retainer.

-

The training ground is full, today, both the other Houses present. A space is still kept for the Deer, however, a small courtesy the Knights extend to their favored house. Ferdinand sees students grumbling about it, but what can they do? The Knights own the training ground, and the Deer need the room. The Golden Deer's officer class is literally twice the size of the other two Houses, and most of them brought over the students who would serve under them in their adulthood.

Why, Ferdinand alone had brought a vast number of trainee soldiers with him, all servants of the families who claimed the von Aegir family as their Duke. Only Dorothea had failed to bring any soldiers with her, being a commoner who, obviously, had no lands or troops to call upon.

To Ferdinand's open admiration, though, she had formed her own small company of soldiers anyway, convincing a few stragglers from other units through sheer charisma and chutzpah to join up with her. She had a little accompaniment now, her thundering solos backed up by a mage's choir. It's incredibly impressive; he'd like to talk to her about it, though she seems to avoid him, even though they are now Housemates once again.

For these reasons, the Deer the largest of the three Houses in sheer size. Notably, this is the first time in all Garreg Mach's history this has ever happened; the Deer are almost always the _smallest _class, with the Lions generally being the biggest, the religious nation preferring to send native sons and daughters to Garreg Mach. This is the one time the Herd is bigger than the Flock or the Pride; just another irony in a House whose heartblood is contradiction.

Ferdinand is the last to arrive, though he is not even close to late; Hilda and Raphael are already at the training ground. Hilda works at something in a notebook, sitting on one of the stone benches surrounding the training sand, while Raphael is finishing up some stretches.

Ferdinand waves to his fellow heavy armor enthusiasts, the three of them forming the mighty frontline of the vast Herd. Leonie, Lorenz, Ingrid, and Ashe formed the second rank of armored cavalry, but they were all at the stables today; it was just Ferdinand and his two compatriots, alongside their attendants.

“ Hey!” Raphael says, as he finishes his stretches, his mercenaries behind him finishing up as well- Raphael had taught them, and several of the older veterans had commented on how much better they felt after his stretches. They all liked Raphael, which was why this particular band of soldiers had come cheap, an important consideration for Raphael's family. Like most of the Alliance's merchant commoners, Raphael's troops were hired mercenaries, after all, the family funds generating an army, since they lacked lands to draw on. “ How's it going, Ferdinand?”

“ It's good!” Ferdinand said. “ What wisdom will you teach us today?”

Raphael laughed. He'd ended up as Hilda and Ferdinand's unintentional teacher; he'd been the only one who'd set out to be a heavy armor wearer from the start, aware that with his size and strength the plate was a natural fit, and he'd ended up teaching his belated fellows his art and ways. More of that Goddess-blessed and Goddess-damned i-word that Ferdinand was coming to hate for its prevalence in his new life, that gentle, common-born Raphael should be the teacher of some of the highest nobles in the arts of war.

He was a good teacher, though, so Ferdinand, as ever, made an effort to listen, and to change his approach when needed.

“ Well, same as usual, honestly. Just good old muscle work today. Nothing fancy.”

“ Ughhhh....” Hilda moaned. Ferdinand had once been off-put by her whining, but paying attention to her had made him realize that was just how Hilda talked; she was as devoted to this, if not more so, than he was. “ I guess if we must.”

“ We must!” Raphael replied cheerfully, because despite his kind and generous heart, when it came to exercise, he was the world's most cheerfully relentless drill sergeant.

Ferdinand laughed, ready for whatever challenges were coming his way.

-

The joy was this: Hubert turned out to be more... well, _interesting _than Ferdinand had anticipated.

Hubert proved tight-lipped about Edelgard, and had even brought some of his coffee to their afternoon tea, clearly thinking he could insult Ferdinand. Well, that was a challenge, and Ferdinand loved challenges, so he accepted it with grace- which, in turn, surprised Hubert enough that he decided to stay and chat.

With talk of Edelgard a dead end, Ferdinand instead talked of other things, hoping to cajole Hubert into saying something by accident. The handsome, stoic man wasn't much of a talker, but the novelty of having tea at all with someone seemed to provoke him, and while his banter was as caustic as his favored drink, all by itself it was almost like what Ferdinand was seeking with Edelgard, the kind of relationship that teaches you something about yourself.

But... it hadn't been _quite _that, because in between the acid, there was something else, something rather more... friendly.

It was... fun.

So when it was done, Ferdinand asked him if he would join him again, in a few days. Hubert, to his own obvious surprise, agreed, so long as he could bring coffee, and while it pained Ferdinand to accept, he did, indeed, acquiesce.

And when he shook Hubert's hand, he felt a warm sweetness in his heart.

-

Enshelled like turtles, Ferdinand, Hilda, and Raphael train, whaling on each other with practice equipment that cannot go through their armor, but can definitely bruise the body beneath. Hilda complains, but she practices and fights like a woman possessed; she never even takes a real break. When Ferdinand and Raphael are busy training against each other, and she is sidelined, she is working on other things, having brought a small notebook with her.

It is stuffed full of research papers for Claude, schedules for the Deer as a whole, and paperwork Byleth needs help with. Hilda, who claims she is so lazy, and who is the busiest person Ferdinand has ever met. Even Hubert had more free time than she did.

( That revelation will get even stranger when Ferdinand realizes how much Hubert was doing in secret.)

Whenever Hilda is sitting down, she is writing in something. When she is up, though, she is _up, _Hilda is a thundering orchestra on two legs. She's moving far too fast for someone wearing so much metal; she's swift and sure, lighter on her feet in the steel than those less well-trained were armorless. Faster than Ferdinand, which is fine with him; it gives him better training, to compete with the swift. It teaches him his own limits, that he might surpass them; listening to someone does not always involve the ears. Sometimes it involves watching body language,

It's why he teaches them spellwork in turn. Byleth likes well-rounded students, she seems to believe they'll do better and live longer if they can switch roles and do at least passably well at everything, even as they inevitably specialize. It's why she demanded that every mage take up a weapon, which has led to the amusing, if also terrifying, sight of Annette running around with a mace; given the small Faerghi mage's incredible capacity for destruction by accident, the idea of her whirling around a mace that probably weighed as much as she did made everyone at Garreg Mach sweat a bit.

It had also led to the much less amusing, and stranger, sight of Lysithea wearing a sword, something she _dares _others to ask about with nothing more than a defiant look. Ferdinand does not taunt her. He knows how much a person may want to be taken seriously, the way Edelgard had never taken him seriously, so he listens, and he treats her and her swordplay with all the respect he would give a veteran.

It endears him to the white-haired mage; they are never close, but Lysithea appreciates his manners, and he is merely glad to be appreciated.

But while mages wielding weapons is a surprise, more so is Byleth's command that each warrior should learn magic. Most can't do the movements in heavy armor, but Byleth wants them to have a second weapon in hand anyway, so that if they are caught without equipment, they can still fight back. To go along with her weapon-slinging wizards, she will have magic-wielding melee experts.

Ferdinand had excelled at this dualistic work, alongside Lorenz, who is something like a brother to him, to the point that others have called them twins. They had even joked about it, each proclaiming to others that they were the pretty twin... but Ferdinand must admit, if by some impossible coincidence it turned out that he and Lorenz really _were _brothers, it wouldn't even be that surprising. They are so incredibly similar it's almost strange, alike not just in attitude but in battle, both as familiar with the muscle work of spears as the mental work of sorcery, their steps are graceful no matter which dance is called.

While this got both of them called a “switch” by Leonie- something neither understood, but the term had caused Claude and Hilda to burst into a wave of surprised laughter that left them choking- it has made them some of the best teachers for their fellow warriors. There are far greater mages among them, and greater warriors, but nobody sits at the crux of the two quite so well as they do, and so they are capable of teaching everything to everyone. The skill gap is noticeable, but all they have to do is provide the basics- teaching Annette where to swing her hammer, Petra how to whisper to the wind, showing Dorothea how to direct the new light in her hands, born of desperate prayer that had saved Mercedes' life.

Speaking of that last, Mercedes was actually better at teaching than they were, but she didn't teach anymore. She was almost mono-focused on her bow practice these days, something in there that Ferdinand doesn't... quite understand. Something that had changed in the Holy Tomb; she'd practiced archery before, but after the Tomb, after seeing the Death Knight, she had turned all her great willpower to the bow and arrow.

Still, regardless of why Mercedes has given up instruction, the nobles take up the task. Ferdinand pays attention as he teaches, and so he is taught by his House mates in turn. Raphael finds Faith easier, enjoys healing, calls it food for the soul, and from the big man Ferdinand learns what life is like for merchants; it is interesting information, and he sees in Raphael's great soul and decency someone worth emulating. Annette's enthusiasm is dampened only by a few conversations about her father, and Ferdinand learns that there are times when honor has limits; not something he'd thought to know, but apparently you can make anything wrong, if you go too far with it.

From Ashe, he hears of desperation, and poverty, and hunger, and the truth of what happened to Lord Lonato; the stories had intrigued him, but Ferdinand had not joined yet, when the Deer went to put down heresy. Now he knows why the Knights were so strange around Byleth for that month before the Tomb, and why Catherine hates her so much; she had stood against all of them, so that Ashe might take his father and bury him, against all the laws of the Church. Heretics were to be burned; but Lonato rests in peace beside his wife and son, his grave dug by Golden hands, who have been accomplices to Ashe in his last and greatest act of thievery- to steal the dead from dishonor.

He thinks on that, Ferdinand does, of how this common-born boy had exemplified the highest virtues by betraying the Church, and it makes him wonder at what might truly be good. He seeks ever to improve, after all; and listening to all these stories, he cannot help but _change_.

It is the one real skill he has; he can change, and for the better.

-

At their second meeting, Hubert asks the question that has annoyed him since the day he met Ferdinand.

“ Why do you seek to compete with your Emperor?” he asks, genuinely curious. Ferdinand has proven to be less... annoying, than Hubert had presumed, more gracious and more... interesting.

Hubert will still kill him, of course, the horrors that have been committed against Edelgard's family by the von Aegirs are too much for the account to be settled with anything except blood, but that day is a while off yet, and Hubert is curious.

The young man is quiet a moment, frowning, then says, quietly, “ You know my father.”

“ Of course,” Hubert says. He does not say what he is thinking; that Edelgard's suffering is the man's fault, that of all her enemies, Duke Aegir is the greatest. It was Agarthan hands and Agarthan knives that cut up Edelgard's siblings, but it was done at Adrestian request, and so the Empire is another people that his lady shall have her vengeance on. She has not awoken in the middle of the night so often, caught in the grip of nightmares that shake even her mighty soul, just to reign peacefully in Enbarr and leave the past behind; there must be _justice_. Someone must _pay_.

“ My father is no true noble,” Ferdinand says, in that soft way we say great truths we figured out in childhood. “ My father is... not a good man. It is a difficult thing to know... I'm sorry, this must sound rather silly.”

Hubert thinks of his own father, and is somewhat shaken to realize that, between him and Ferdinand, there is something of similarity.

“ No,” Hubert says, equally softly. “ It doesn't. I understand.”

Ferdinand nods. “ I want to be better than that. And to be better, I need... well, help. Someone to point out my flaws. My father's arrogance means he listens to no one; I choose a different path.”

“ So you choose Edelgard, who is mighty and grand,” Hubert muses. “ Not... an entirely incorrect decision, I suppose. Testing yourself against her is a high bar to clear.”

“ If I aim to be great,” Ferdinand said, “ and to be worthy of the title of Duke, what better proof than such a hard test?”

Hubert laughs at that, and the sound is like pure chocolate, dark and bittersweet and lovely, so very lovely.

-

Whenever Ferdinand rests from training, he is swarmed by students. He is the most approachable of the Deer's officers in the training hall, after all; while Raphael doesn't offer much of the information they want, and Hilda deflects questions due to her busy schedule, the Adrestian eagerly answers anything the other students ask of him, and they have questions aplenty to ask. Many students are terribly jealous of the Deer; many others are completely fascinated.

It is the latter that mostly ask questions, and to whom Ferdinand supplies answers. They ask about the “field trips,” the euphemism used for the combat Byleth has them deal with, every month. He answers, tells her of bandits dead at his hands, of monstrous wolves grown three times the size of a man, of birds that could carry a human off in their claws to feed on at leisure. They ask why; he tells them that Byleth, as a former mercenary, well knew that what was taught in safety needed practice in danger; and so she pits her vast Herd into battles of life-or-death, so that they might learn in the real world what she pontificates on in the classroom.

He tells them that it teaches them to push on when they are hurt, or tired, that for all the horrible things she has exposed them to, she has always taken care to talk to them about it afterwards, to take time to ease troubled minds; and that, under her noble leadership, the Deer have not lost a single member. Byleth risks their lives, but so far the dice prove favorable, the professor an able gambler; whatever hand she draws, they all come home alive.

One wit posits that Byleth is doing her best to either turn her entire class of Deer into heroes of old... or she is trying to get them all killed. Ferdinand laughs, and tells them that with Byleth, it was a tossup.

That makes the others ask what Byleth herself is like. He answers with truth: stoic, but loving, something half protective mother hen and half emotionless drill sergeant. Her face rarely registers emotion, and so the little things mean more; a small smirk that indicates great rolling fields of laughter inside her, a brief glance that tells of worry that runs deep to the bone, a hardening of the eyes that means rage a lesser body could not contain. He speaks of her incredible power, of how impossibly mighty she is, and how holy, too; a holy lady, the professor, who wields the very Sword the Goddess had, once upon a time, given unto Nemesis, before his heart turned monstrous.

Holy, too, in how she preaches; teaching is not so different, after all, and she is more a guide to them than most teachers would be. He talks of how she speaks with them of the dangers of battle to the soul and the mind, wounds as real and, in their own way, deadlier than bodily harm; how she seeks to soothe such wounds in them, and encourages them to speak with her. How it is _easy _to speak with her, because her silent facade, like any vacuum, seeks to be filled, and they all go to that confessional. How caring she is, underneath the impression of distance. He talks of her wisdom and her intelligence, and of how deep his respect for her runs.

He speaks, last, of her nickname, of the absurdity that someone called the Ashen Demon should wield the Sword of the Creator- for there it is again, that singular dysfunction within the Golden Deer, that everything is topsy-turvy, the chaos that runs in their veins. In the Deer, one who bore a name of hell could find themselves blessed under heaven; but perhaps, Ferdinand will joke, he should say it otherwise. Given that it's the Golden Deer, perhaps _only _a Demon could be the avatar of the Goddess. Just as the one House with glorious, heavenly gold in its coolors also had common, muddy brown on their banner, so too is the House under that banner a dance of contradictions, sacred blasphemies and heretical holiness; within it, only one named after abomination could be found worthy of sanctification.

Non-Deer gasp at his stories, while the Deer nod and confirm his tales as truth. Not that there is much doubt; even if the other students were disinclined to believe, the storm of controversy Byleth's actions have raised at the school verifies it all as truth. The newest professor of Garreg Mach has set the school at terrible and tremendous odds with itself, setting professors against students.

The Blue Lions actively demand that Hanneman take them out on similar jaunts, something the old man is horrified by; not only would it slash the time he has for research, but should he manage to get any of the few remaining Lions killed, Faerghus would take his head... and he would be horrified enough at having gotten one killed that he would submit to it without a fight.

Manuela, meanwhile, is furious at Byleth for how much work she generates, the infirmary full after every field trip. She's went on drunken rants more than once, at one point accusing Byleth of doing it to ruin a date of hers on purpose, on another just straight up asking a student why the hell they agree to do this kind of shit.

That student having been Leonie, she'd told her, “ Because it's _awesome_.”

Manuela had stopped asking after that.

When she's sober, meanwhile, Manuela tries to get her Black Eagles to go, something Edelgard steadfastly refuses as a waste of time.

( Ferdinand will think of that, later, and realize just why Edelgard would not want to waste time on such things, with the greater business before her. It wasn't like _Edelgard _was lacking in practical combat experience.)

All these things Ferdinand talks about at each training session... but he doesn't talk about everything. There are things that are private, for Golden Deer only, secrets the great House keeps.

He does not talk of how many students nearly leave after their first such trip, of how violence sometimes sticks in the mind like a scar for some of them- Dorothea is the most obvious, but many of them feel greatly stressed by combat. There are some for whom combat lingers, long after it is over, who hear screams that aren't there, and argue with ghosts.

Ferdinand doesn't, and counts himself lucky that war does not affect him that way- truth be told, he rather enjoys it- but he cannot take credit for not suffering. It is not a matter of bravery or strength, but seems to be something of dumb luck; it is no failing of character that leads to the damage that lasts, but random chance. Dorothea is braver and stronger than anyone, and still her nightmares hurt her so badly; the same goes for Linhardt, whose gentle wisdom is horrified by the blood on his hands. They are both great people, but nonetheless does death cast shadows into their skull; and if they can suffer it, anyone can. It is by the luck of the draw Ferdinand has dodged that suffering, and he is grateful.

He does not talk about how Byleth takes them aside, these walking wounded, and the sacred Demon does her blessed damndest to convince them to stay. It works, every time, because Byleth is so awkward in social contexts that her pleas cannot be taken for anything but what they are- the truth. She cannot lie to save her life. That honesty shines forth like the sun at noon; it cannot be hidden or denied.

And what she is honest about is this- Byleth is _desperate _for them to stay, and fight on. Byleth never lies, seemingly _can't_, and that raises all kinds of questions in the Herd. Why is she so determined to see them go to war? It is a powerful thing, this desperate drive in her- even Marianne, who hates violence and living both, was convinced by her professor's stumbling tongue to commit to survival and warfare. Byleth... simply needs them to be fighters, needs it so badly it is hard to question.

But... _why? _

_ -_

He'd kept talking to Hubert, now not just to learn of Edelgard. They talked of many things, and for a time, Ferdinand thought that maybe he'd... found something else. Not what he'd expected to find, but valuable by itself... a sort of warmth in Hubert's eyes, a fondness in Ferdinand's.

The last time they were together sticks in Ferdinand's mind, as it will until the day he dies, a memory of a might-have-been. The last time Ferdinand was with Hubert, a week before Byleth recruited him, they had discussed animals, and Hubert admitted that he had always wanted to ride a pegasus.

Ferdinand had offered to take him to the stables and accompany him as he tried, and to keep silent about the result. Pegasi generally disliked men, not for any biological reason, but for cultural ones. The world's cultures tended to favor men over women, even in Fodlan, where the bite was less. Because of that, men had to grow up less than women did, had to care less and think less, usually. Pegasi required a certain spirit of goodness and greatness in their riders, or at the very least the _potential _for such, and men were at a disadvantage in such a contest due precisely to their advantages elsewhere. Women failed that test more often than not, but men failed it most of the time.

Of Garreg Mach's male students, there are only three men who would be found worthy, though none of them ever figure it out, never think to try: Ashe for his peerless heart, Raphael for his boundless kindness, and Linhardt for his gentle spirit. Only Raphael will ever get the smallest idea of it, and he only knew that the pegasi don't mind him petting them or feeding them, and thought no further on it.

Hubert had approached a big black stallion, and Ferdinand had watched as the stablemaster did, too, expecting the animal to buck, bite, or simply shove Hubert away for his audacity.

But the animal had done something strange that Ferdinand had never heard of before; it gave Hubert a strange look, its gaze oddly... sad. It let him touch it, and even gave him a brief nuzzle... before gently pushing him away with its head.

Ferdinand didn't know what to do with that, but Hubert bowed to the pegasus before he left, as formal as to royalty, and had a strange expression of melancholy on his face, as if he knew _why_.

( Hubert was almost the fourth man in Garreg Mach; but the pegasus saw what he was willing to allow, what he was willing to tolerate, and it was too much. Hubert failed, not for lack of greatness, but for lack of wisdom; as Edelgard will realize, four years into her war, your means _are_ your ends, you cannot separate them. How an end is reached itself determines that end, despite the hopes of idealists, who believe that if they just sacrifice _enough _they will have what they want. The cynics are right, your means create your ends. From abomination can come only abomination, not paradise.)

The stablemaster never did stop giving Hubert odd looks after that; they said a pegasus knew a person's heart inside and out, and to have a pegasus empathize with, but reject, someone had never happened before to the stablemaster's knowledge.

They ended up talking about it, and Hubert said he was glad to have tried; that he now knew that, if things were different, he might have been a pegasus rider.

Ferdinand did not know what he was talking about- not then, not at the time- but praised him for handling it so well, for his maturity and cool head.

In reply, Hubert gave him a genuine, honest smile, and that warmth in Ferdinand's heart blossomed, a crimson flower, a red rose. Spurred by that feeling, he thought it would not be so bad, to take Hubert's hand in his own, a thing allowed in Adrestia; they lacked the cosmopolitan openness of Leceister's free folk, or the cultural notions of Dagda, but “understandings” were common and acceptable enough.

They weren't Faerghus, for the Goddess' sake, where such things were frowned upon... and while Ferdinand had never even considered it before, hadn't known he even _could _be attracted to men, that smile made him want to reach such an understanding.

Though Ferdinand did not know it, Hubert felt that way, too- and thus, dutifully reported it to Edelgard, who sighed as she realized that she could not allow Hubert the distraction. Maybe with someone else, but definitely not with Ferdinand, whose father she would kill for his role in her family's suffering; it had been Agarthan hands that pulled her flesh apart, Agarthan knives that made the scars that ran up and down her body, but it was at the Prime Minister's request that such experimentation took place at all.

So Hubert did what he was told, and no more did he talk with Ferdinand. Ferdinand, jilted, wounded, tried to rekindle his rivalry with Edelgard, but she cut him off, too, as tired of it then as she was when he'd stopped the month before.

Then Byleth had arrived, and asked him to join. If Ferdinand was being honest, he had not so much joined the Golden Deer at Byleth's request as he'd fled the Black Eagles... though the process of leaving had been easier than he'd thought.

He had to ask Edelgard first, and ended up sitting down with her and Hubert in the classroom after class was over. Edelgard had initially opposed it, as she had not opposed the other three students who had already left, chasing the new professor to her Herd; those had been nobodies, but Ferdinand was the highest ranking noble in the Empire, and she needed him close at hand.

( Technically Manuela was in charge, but the school's technicalities faded in the face of Imperial reality; Edelgard dictated who could leave her class.)

That would have been the end of it... except that Hubert, speaking against his leader for the first and only time Ferdinand had ever heard of, had asked that she agree.

( It was the last gasp of Hubert the person, the last bit of his heart that wasn't Edelgard's, that dreamed of freedom and Ferdinand's hand.)

Edelgard, surprised at this turn of events, had granted the request. Ferdinand had looked in Hubert's eyes right then, and saw a flicker in those lovely eyes... just a flicker. Some acknowledgment of... might-have-beens, of something in Hubert and Ferdinand both, that might have been happy with each other.

But that was it. A flicker. Perhaps in another life.

In this one, Ferdinand, grateful to run from his shame, shed black and blood-red for gold and golden-brown, and the Eagle flew off to build a new nest for himself in the great forest of the Deer, and maybe not make such a fucking mess of it this time.

_ -_

Two weeks into his stay at the Golden Deer, Hilda spoke with him at the stables, as he cleans his steed.

“ Hey,” the might woman asked. “ Me and Claude have been thinking... have you tried heavy armor?”

“...No,” Ferdinand replied, a bit warily. He had been here only two weeks, and while the sting of being near Edelgard and Hubert had begun to fade, he had not yet grown close to any of his Housemates except Lorenz.

“ Well, we were thinking,” Hilda said, her tones all chirpy pep and vigor (though Ferdinand had already begun to learn that the sugar coated purest steel), “ that you might like it. You draw a lot of attention to yourself in combat, after all, shouting your name like you do!”

“ That's deliberate,” he said. “ It refocuses their attention on me, I... don't like the idea of others getting hurt. I'm a nobleman; I can take it.”

“ Well, it'd be easier to defend others if you, yourself, were well-defended!” Hilda responded. “ I've been training with Raphael in heavy armor; I want to ask you to try to do the same. The Deer need a heavier frontline; Byleth's been harping on it, and me and Claude think you're a natural for it.”

Ferdinand pondered that. When he considered the Deer solely as a military unit, they were... rather impressive. An almost unbelievably solid back rank of mages, centered on the impossible prodigy of dark magic that was Lysithea, supported by Annette for elemental spellcasting and Linhardt for healing. Dorothea swapped between as needing, singing storms or humming healing spells as required, as did Marianne, her magic killing frost or sweet life.

There was an extremely strong cavalry component, focused on Lorenz, Ashe, Leonie and himself, at the moment, on the ground, with Ingrid leading a squad of flyers to back up her ground-bound brethren.

Lightly armored skirmishers to supplement where needed, comprised of Petra and Byleth's units, which meant the skirmishers, despite numbering only two battalions, were probably the deadliest component of the entire force.

Even their archery line was great; Claude, Mercedes, and Ignatz. Claude was as skilled at archery as he was at talking, Mercedes was rapidly catching up to the point that it seemed she might actually be the _deadliest _of the three, and Ferdinand had never seen Ignatz miss, which was just... terrifying, when he thought about it, given how demure the man was.

But for true, front-line, get-stuck-in fighters, they really only had Raphael and Hilda... they had enough cavalry. Perhaps his new House's leader was right.

“ I suppose the Golden Deer, err, _we _need more staying power,” he said, awkwardly stumbling over their supposed unity. This was before the Tomb, after all, when there could no longer be questions of loyalty or support, and _we _had not become second nature to him yet, the way it will to all the Deer.

( The largest House, which one might assume to be the most fractious, will be reforged down in the dark, the fight with the Flame Emperor will prove to be flame enough to melt their separations down and make a single blade of them, built to Claude's wise specifications and fit for Byleth's mighty hand; but this has not come to be, not just yet.)

“ But why me?” he asked. Hilda tilted her head.

“ You take a lot on yourself,” she said, and for a second, Ferdinand knew she was talking a little about herself, too. “ You bear heavy burdens. A bit of armor can help you weather the storm; and frankly, we're all kind of surprised you _don't _wear heavy armor. It seems like it'd fit you.”

“ Really?” he said, focus sharpening when the subject turned to his own capabilities.

Hilda nodded. “ Yep. I was talking about this with Leonie just the other day, when we were discussing possible places for you; heavy armor came up fairly often. You're loud, boisterous, you throw yourself in harm's way; heavy armor helps with all of that.”

He'd never considered heavy armor before... but presented like this, why not listen, and change? It sounded like a good idea.

“ Well, I can try it,” Ferdinand responded, and Hilda clapped.

_ -_

_ Why_ is such a powerful question. Those who get dragged back by Byleth ask it, and the rest of the House parrots the words.

Ferdinand is not one of the students Byleth has had to take aside. The battles Byleth puts them through are dramatic and violent, so Ferdinand loves them thoroughly, loves the whole thing so much he might well be the professor's biggest fan whose name isn't Edelgard (her crush is the one secret the girl has that everyone knows.)

Ferdinand is _delighted _each time Byleth decides that they must go commit violence, for he is always ready to prove his might, and grow stronger. The professor even kind of likes him for it, to the extent she likes anything that isn't fishing, fighting, eating or sleeping, the four great loves of her life.

But even he must wonder... _why? _The wit had some of the truth, Byleth _does _seem to seek to make them as powerful as heroes of old... but again, the endless refrain.

_Why? _

Everyone has a theory. The original eight Deer all have diverse opinions; Leonie thinks she's just training them to the standards of Jeralt's mercenaries, Ignatz and Raphael both think she's going overboard to compensate for the House's relative lack of discipline. Lorenz and Lysithea both like Leonie's theory, but neither has expressed a firm opinion yet. Claude keeps his ideas close to his chest, with only Hilda having the slightest idea what he thinks of the matter; but ever-faithful Hilda will not speak of Claude's thoughts, and will offer no opinion of her own.

Marianne, meanwhile, has grown convinced after the Tomb that Byleth is following a divine plan, that this is all meant to be, though no one else shares her fervent conviction.

( Later, he will realize how close the bluenette came to the truth of things.)

The former Eagles, himself included, tend to go with Petra. Petra, who has studied her, who confided in the others that she thinks she sees _fear_, of all things, in Byleth's eyes, when they don't get some lesson on tactics she is teaching. Something there, something... desperate? Petra believes she is simply so scared of them being hurt that, paradoxically, she leads them into danger, in the hopes of teaching them how to protect themselves.

And that makes Ferdinand think of his own recruitment. She had come to ask him in desperation... what is it, that Byleth sees, that none of them do?

The former Eagles share Petra's thoughts with their stolen Lions, and those who once wore Blue debate it before coming to two opinions; all but Ingrid follow the lead of Mercedes, who agrees with Petra, that it is fear for them that drives Byleth. Mercedes may have the right of it, being closer to Byleth than most- the professor appreciating someone more her own age.

( In time, much closer still.)

Ingrid theorizes that she is trying to make them masters of war. What for? Fodlan is at peace...

( Ferdinand will think of that, in the half-decade in which he fights, in which all the violent training Byleth has put them through proves its worth and keeps him alive, and he will realize that Byleth was only trying to save them. She has _always _been trying to save them.)

But, regardless of why, Ferdinand loves it. The Golden Deer are alone in going out to true battle, in actively seeking out violence, and he is proud to think that he has seen more real battle than even Edelgard; it is a victory over her, one of the only ones he has, and that is yet another thing he owes Byleth. The other Houses do not leave Garreg Mach to go to war; only the Deer do.

-

In the wake of his conversation with Hilda, he starts training in plate.

The armor feels... odd. At first, he's afraid he's being played for a fool, feels a bit like a dressed up turkey in the armor... up until he takes a step, and feels that _weight_, all that metal, settling as he moves. There is a gravity to each movement now, not just the literal gravity of being heavier, but a gravit_as_ to each step- each step he takes is a powerful one, he must be noticed, now. The enemy cannot ignore someone as bedecked in plate as he.

The training further confirms Hilda and Leonie's assessment of him. He draws fire like few men do- a man yelling his own name at you will attract attention, be your discipline as tight as steel- but now it matters less; the armor shrugs off half of the attacks he suffers, letting him power through those few that actually hurt him. He's not seen real combat in the armor yet... but his training goes well, and he is eager to see what battle will be like in the armor.

-

Of course, the Deer's trips aren't unopposed. Seteth had tried, repeatedly, to get Rhea to stop Byleth from risking her class- and so many future noble lives- on her strange, violent excursions.

The attempts are fruitless; Rhea blesses them for it, denies all attempts to censure Byleth, and the Archbishop personally ensures that they have funding and equipment. Byleth is her favorite, that becomes so clear that it is the talk of the monastery; rumors abound. The most proper and respectful rumors wonder if Rhea has finally found a wife; Rhea has, very rarely, expressed interest in others before, but nothing like this. Byleth can do no wrong, in Rhea's eyes, and some wonder if it is a sign of love, or at least infatuation. Rhea seems to be special to the professor, too, after all; Byleth visits her often.

But, of course, alongside the respectful musings are much more crude things. The assumption goes around that always goes around when pretty young women visit alone with older persons in power, whispered by idiot lips that cannot conceive nor comprehend of any other way that a young woman might uplift herself- and that place the blame on women who _do _uplift themselves in that way, rather than those who take advantage of them. It takes two to sing duet, after all, as some Adrestian opera once mused, as Dorothea herself sarcastically comments when she hears the rumors, which are terribly familiar to her ears.

The idea enrages Ferdinand; not that Rhea and Byleth might be together, he thinks they'd be cute, but that Byleth owes her grandeur to something as basic as _sex_. _Surely_ it cannot be Byleth's power or that she is chosen by the Goddess, even though she has the Sword of the Creator on her hip and is descended from Nemesis himself; no, it must be that she and the Archbishop are _fucking_. Even should Rhea and Byleth be together, it is no more than what Byleth has _earned _by her deeds.

Ferdinand is not alone in his fury. The rumors enrage the Deer, one of the few things the disparate and enormous House can all agree on. When Ferdinand got in trouble for defending Byleth's honor (with words, then with fists as things got heated), it made him the pride of the House for a week, and even Dorothea, who dislikes him, had cheered his actions.

The Knights of Seiros approved, too; defending Byleth's honor is a way of defending the Archbishop's honor, given the nature of the rumors, and so the Knights' esteem for the Golden Deer grows with each such incident. The punishments are light on the three students who havegotten into trouble for such incidents, those being Ferdinand, Leonie, and of all people, Ignatz, who headbutted one particularly graphic student so hard that he broke the Lion's nose. The other student got in more trouble than Ignatz did, given how vile his words were, and Ignatz's actions were immortalized by Dorothea in a rather catchy ballad she named Lion Tamer.

That the Golden Deer are getting away with such incidents furthers the impression of favoritism, and does nothing to stop the rumors. It is only when several of the loudest and most offensive students have recurring bouts of stomach illness that anyone learns to stay quiet, the sicknesses courtesy of Claude and Petra, who is quiet enough to sneak her House leader's poisons into nearly anyone's meal.

Still, Ferdinand must admit, as he finishes regaling the other students and goes to train, the accusation of being favored is true, even if the other half of the rumor isn't; and why shouldn't she be? Byleth had been Rhea's favored professor even before she went down into the Tomb and emerged triumphant, Sword in hand, divine approval radiating from her skin. If the Goddess likes Byleth, the Archbishop damn well better!

-

It takes two weeks to train, but when the Tomb comes- when time comes that Claude shall prove himself a true House leader, leading them to victory when Byleth is wounded, when all the outcasts and transfers finally shed all traces of their former allegiance down there in the dark of the sacred graves and emerge out into the secular light a single Herd- it will find him ready in a suit of steel.

He will come out of it alive. He will be hurt, but not in any permanent way; and because he was there to be hurt instead, there are others who are alive. Leonie, who had indirectly encouraged his armor use, is repaid her kindness when he interposes himself between a spear and her torso; the spear skips off his shoulder, where it would have sank into her unarmored side, and instead of spilling her guts out, it merely gives him a bruise on his shoulder. Lorenz is caught out by archers, hiding behind a pillar, up until Ferdinand distracts them with a shout of his name; their arrows plink off the plate, bashing the skin beneath and leaving marks that will take days to fade, but it gives Lorenz opportunity to run them down and kill them all. Annette, cornered by swordsmen, who he had charged into without fear of harm, knowing that their feeble blades would not cut through his armor. Annette's face had lit up with delight at her sudden rescue, and he'd returned her smile underneath his helmet before turning to the next task.

They are alive because of him. Because he was there, they are alive; and because he _listened_ to Hilda, he is alive, too, the way he would not be had he not worn the plate. He will protect them, as a nobleman should, using his greater privilege and greater position to do greater deeds; and the armor will protect him while he does it.

In the aftermath, he finds that Hilda, Claude, and Leonie were wise. Even though his first real battle in heavy armor was such a harsh test, it passed with flying colors- as did he, himself. He's amused by his own foolishness as he examines his armor, sees a distorted reflection of himself in the shining metal that seems older, the hair a free and long tangle. Wearing such plate armor was such a simple, obvious thing, and it _does _fit him well, fits him perfectly, given that he prefers to protect others... perhaps so simple and obvious that he'd just plain overlooked it.

But that's why he pays attention to others; they see things he'd have missed. His father never listened to anyone, and it had made a monster out of what should have been a nobleman. It would never have occurred to Ferdinand to wear such a thing, but it did occur to others, and so he adds their wisdom to his, and changes... and so he never will be like his father. As he begins the process of buffing and cleaning the steel, he knows that he will never wear anything else again; he will be a walking fortress, a safe space behind which his allies can rally, secure in the knowledge that nothing can get by him.

Annette had called him a knight in shining armor; he is not of Faerghus, but he finds the image delightful, and armor that shines will draw even more attention to him, protect even more people. Ferdinand can bear that burden; and if he cannot, then he will strive to grow, and in time shoulder it.

He spends most of the evening after the Tomb- after their debriefing by Rhea- cleaning his armor, and when he finally goes to sleep, he sleeps the peaceful rest of one who has done well.

-

Ferdinand has a strange dream, that night.

He is there in the dream, seeing things from his own eyes, but he is not quite himself. He is something of an eagle, at first, but even as he becomes conscious of that fact, he changes; good, sturdy brown legs, ending in powerful hooves, four of them, keeping him strong and sturdy. Antlers sprout from his head, golden at the edges of his vision, something like nature's halo; it weighs down his head, it makes his head heavy, and he knows with that terrible certainty of dream-logic that his antlers are forming the shape of a king's crown. He has turned into a great stag, brown and gold, but he keeps his Eagle's wings, just for a moment, sticking out awkwardly from his forward shoulders.

He looks around himself, finds that he is standing in Garreg Mach, on the great bridge that separates the main classrooms and barracks from the church proper. Before him is the Church, though it is badly wounded, it is being destroyed; snow the color of purest silver falls on it from an azure moon above, and they are trying to rebuild it, but the blue moonlight and argentate frost are being destroyed by crimson flowers.

Those flowers grow over and through the vast cathedral's ruins, bouquet sprays of red roses linked by long, thorny green ivy, topped with blackened leaves. They are beautiful, exceedingly so, but Ferdinand sees to his horror that their roots are buried deep in a river of blood that runs like a moat all around the once holy place, the bodies of the innocent bobbing silently in that river- so many corpses, so many lives, the stacked dead of entire nations.

The flowers- which are just _one _flower, he now realizes, it's just a single plant whose deepest roots are stuck in white-haired corpses- are strangling the great church, spreading across all of it like beautiful cancer, and where the crimson flower blooms, the silver snow and azure moon are driven back.

But whatever the church's failures, the bridge does not suffer from them; the crimson flower tries to grow here, too, but this place that links two lands together as one is safe, protected by a warm and verdant wind that sweeps the snow away, a green and living thing that descends from the golden sun in the northeast. Where that hot desert wind touches, even the hardiest of blooms is withered and wasted to ruin.

He turns- he's not sure why, it's a dream, things just _happen _in dreams- and looks at the other side of the bridge, where the classrooms stand. But it is dark, on that side of the bridge, the only light is around a single classroom that sits directly at the bridge's end, where no classroom should be. And that classroom is... strange; it looks like it is on an island, somewhere, it is open to the air, more a semi-circle of chairs around a podium than anything else, and he does not recognize any of the art or architecture on the few items of furniture it holds. Students sit there, scribbling in notebooks or talking, wearing clothes he does not recognize, clothes that change even as he watches, reflecting styles that once were fashionable and styles that will _be _fashionable, made of materials ancient or not yet invented.

A man stands before them, and he is teaching something, some complicated math that Ferdinand's mind balks at. The man speaks a different tongue, one that Ferdinand can recognize only in bits and pieces; but some words he gets. Almyra, and the moon, and journey, and flight.

The man is long-haired, and he looks so familiar; he looks like someone that Ferdinand _should _know, or maybe knew once, long ago, who had aged and changed in the meantime. There are tattoos on his skin, names written in golden ink, some of them names Ferdinand recognizes as belonging to his Housemates.

As Ferdinand reads them, they begin sliding down his skin, and new names take their place, to slide down in time; the names Ferdinand knows are soon buried under a tidal wave of names he does _not _recognize. They begin to drip off the man, painting the floor in lustrous gold, spreading out from him in a pool, and as they do so they bring a shining light with them that reveals what else is on that side of the bridge; statues, great statues of heroes.

One a thin mage, and the heroine holds up a mighty sword, so heavy her arms shake to lift it- but the edge shines with night, and is deadlier for it. Another is a statue of a painter, whose wise eyes will capture the world entire, and preserve history against the ravages of time. Another is of an impossibly fine knight, without peer, and she crosses her spear with another knightly statue's, though his spear has the flag of Duscur hanging from it.

He _knows _these people, but in that frustrating way of dreams, he cannot recall how. The gold spreads and spreads, even to the bridge itself, rendering the road into heavenly gold; and as it touches his hooves, his eagle's wings burst into flames. It hurts, but it is a good hurt, the good hurt of growth and change; and the ashes fly off of him, they land on the sides of the now-golden bridge in straight rows and transmute themselves into good brown dirt, from which spring up flowers.

Not the crimson flower behind him that dies in the verdant wind, but a riot of little flowers, each with petals colored like the flag of one of the worlds' nations. They bloom, these little flowers, all the world gathered into two solid rows down the long sides of this bridge, their buds growing in seconds until their flowers are in the full blush of life. When they open, it changes things; there is a smell of Almyran spices in the air, and he can hear the sound of Leceister songs; and words of gratitude, and thanks.

He looks down at the golden names that crowd the bridge, and dream-logic once more tells him what they are; they are the names of every person who is alive because of the long-haired man, every person who will get a chance to be because of this man, and he knows that names will _always _be added to this list, so long as humanity lasts; for the people he saved will go on to have or adopt children of their own, or to save other lives, and those lives in turn will aid other lives... and that each of those will be attributable to this long-haired man first. They will be able to be there for others because, first, this man was there for _them_, and the gold dripping off of him is a scroll of honor that will go on forever.

He looks up, and he sees the last statues, a trio looming ove the classroom. The first is of a great lord awash in shining gold, crowned with antlers, whose brown skim shimmers with secrets and stars, astride a white wyvern. An Emperor, under whom kings and queens serve, who will someday save the world; who will do more than that. The world will be _better _because this man existed, the only accolade that will never die. When the stars go out, and the sun turns cold, and there is nothing but darkness, this will still be true: because this man lived, and chose to do as he did, life was better for everyone.

Beside him, as she always was, is a Queen,who stands next to this King as his equal, armored and bedecked in full plate, ever-faithful in her guarding of him with axe and shield. The blade of her axe is made of hellfire, her shield compacted diamond; her armor gleams with gold, too, with a list of names, the same as the kneeling man's, and it drips off of her like rainwater, too, sacred precipitation of holy writ. Her long hair, of the same shade of pink that romantic roses held, seems to drift in some unseen verdant wind, long as a dragon's tail, the ends curling protectively around her King.

The last is a statue of a Goddess, but she doesn't look like any painting of her he's ever seen; he thinks he knows this woman, too, though that thought is terribly blasphemous. But she is looking at him, directly at him, and the statue is smiling, and he hears a warm and familiar voice in his head.

_Thank you, Ferdinand. Thank you for being worthy of mercy_.

And Ferdinan awakes.

-

He strives to forget the dream. Too much, too much to think about, he _almost _understands it, but it is so strange and terrifying that he refuses to think on it.

One day, though, he will understand it in full, for he will see the long-haired teacher again, in his very own mirror.

( Time will come that things must end; and much does Ferdinand do. But this is the thing that lasts; he will marry Petra, in time, as his willingness to listen and to change teaches him wisdom, and earns him Petra's adoration and admiration both. He will marry her, and while Brigid will at first distrust this new Adrestian consort, he will prove to be the most dedicated king they have ever had; he will spend all the great wealth he brings not on treasures or fine things or a wealthy man's toys, but on Brigid's people. Hospitals and roads, fortifications and navies; these are the things that Ferdinand's gold purchases for the well-being of his people.)

( But above all else, he will spend money on their _education_, and while history will remember his wife as the great military Queen who fought Dagda not once, not twice, but three times, and each time emerged the victor, with numerous other battles successfully conducted under her wise rule, Ferdinand will be remembered as a scholar. The university he will build in that island nation, based partially on Garreg Mach, will be the model on which all education in the world is based, in time, and will maintain that bleeding edge reputation throughout the centuries; the wisest in all the world will come from Brigid, eventually. It will even be a Brigid team of scientists that completes the math equations that will take an Almyran crew to Fodlan's moon, paid for with Leceister funds; for none of the three nations will ever forget that, under the grandest of dukes, their three nations were allies, and won a great war. There will be a statue of Ferdinand in the University of Brigid, greatest of the world's centers of learning, and on that statue's chest will be the golden badge that bears the only crown he will ever wear, the crown of antlers that, once upon a time, a Goddess thought him worthy to bear.)

(In time, he proved her right.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Long time no see, but I'm back.
> 
> I've added a chapter to this thing's length because I want to discuss things that happen post-timeskip with this particular House of Golden Deer, so that's what the new chapter's for.
> 
> Hope you guys like it! Ferdinand was hard to write because there is SO MUCH going on with him, I suspect he'll have the longest part of Chapter 10. This thing, long as it is, is like, only half of what I wrote for him, lol. He's hard to write because there is SO MUCH to write about.


	6. Ashe: Knight of the Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashe... good old Ashe, whose backstory is one of the most FASCINATING in the game. Ashe, who just wants to be a great knight.

**Ashe Duran**

**Knight of the Crown**

The first time Ashe learned to appreciate a spear, one had just hit him in the face.

He had been staring at a book, whose cover... caught him, caught him as surely as any trap had ever caught a stray alleycat. The knight on the cover, the wind blowing behind him, the bloodshed before him and the greatness in his eyes... this was something, something big, he could not read but did not have to, remembering stories of his mother and father, before the sickness, tales of heroes and knights and legends.

It was... beautiful.

But, unfortunately, he was not in his own home, inside the ruined bakery his parents had once ran. He was, in fact, in the middle of robbing someone else's house, and should not have paused in his escape.

So as he stared, he was caught. Lonato had surprised him, and he had surprised Lonato, too, who on reflex smacked the intruder with the blunt end of his spear. Ashe had fallen over, dropping the book, spilling the stolen coins, and Lonato had looked at him so... strangely, as he lay there.

Lonato looked at the book again, then at the scared boy, at the money that fell, shining and ringing, onto the stones from Ashe's pockets. He looked, and where most men would see a thief, a disgusting beggar, Lonato- for he was a good man, let that truth be remembered first, that Lonato was a _good _man- saw a hungry child, a thin child, one with terrible fear in his eyes.

“ You're just a boy,” he'd said. Ashe, terrified, had said nothing, had not recognized that low and quiet cadence, like a hymn, that ran through Lonato's words, that understanding of Ashe's smallness, of Lonato's largeness, of how easily he could destroy this hurt and scared boy before him.

With terrible slowness, Lonato lowered himself down to the boy's level. His free hand found the book, and then he handed it to Ashe.

“ A kid should have something to read,” Lonato had said, in a strangely thick voice. “ And some... some spare change, too.”

And then the nobleman had put his spear down, and on his knees did this great lord gather the fallen coins, and put them gently into Ashe's shocked hands.

Ashe had stared at him, at the older man's kindly face, and then he had _panicked_. No one _did _things like this, no one gave anything to starving children, and certainly no lord ever was so kind to a thief. He ran, ran as fast as he could, buying food along the way- though for once not with stolen goods but with gifted gold. He fed his siblings that evening from Lonato's largesse, the first meal the old noble would ever buy for them, and Ashe looked at that book's cover ash e lay with his siblings, and wondered what it all meant.

Two days later, Lonato had managed to track down his little tomcat thief to his parent's ruined restaurant, whose basement was shelter enough for them, their beds full of stolen quilts; Ashe was the world's busiest big brother, half parent and half friend to his siblings, and he had done his absolute best for them. Lonato had learned much of him, in the last two days, this incredibly devoted little thief who was out every day, who ignored beatings and threats, but who only stole necessities; there were even merchants who had simply written off his thefts, kindly souls who felt no ill will to the boy.

Lonato had tallied it up, and believed he was taking care of someone else- perhaps a parent left bedridden by the awful plague, or siblings... someone this noble little thief was helping. Lonato did his best for his people, and he would help this starved child, who was so desperate that he tried to rob a castle.

The search ended here- a street of empty houses, the plague's deadly hand heavy here, and everyone in the area killed. And down this street, somewhere, was the cat burglar's lair...

Lonato walked, seeing the street as it was and how it should have been, how this ruin was a tailor's shop in better days, saw the water patterns where broken gutters and unrepaired sewers had let rainwater gather into new currents down the street, where what had been a few scattered plants and trees used for effect had begun to spread into true wilderness. A bench in the street's middle survived, facing what had once been a bank, a decrepit thing that was made of twisting metal and sagging wood, clearly visible by most of the street.

He moved himself there, and sat down in it, leaning back to enjoy the sunlight as it warmed his old bones.

From the street's end, from around the broken door of his family's home- where looters had destroyed the place, as they had ruined all they touched- Ashe stared, stared at this strange and incongruous sight, of the wealthy noble sitting on a ruined bench down his disease-wracked street. There was something there that was like the book, that made him feel like the sight of that knight had, something brave and grand and courageous...

In time, curiosity compelled Ashe forward, to speak with this strange thing, this great and wealthy man, owner of territories vast, who had chosen to come down this ugly and silent street and just... sit. Curiosity, which killed so many cats... but he could not help but go, he could not help but see this wondrous strange thing.

And wondrous and strange did it make him, for as Ashe approached, Lonato looked... different. Not just because he was seeing him in full sunlight, not just because he wore no armor, but... there was something different about him, as he sat there.

Sitting on that broken bench on that ruined street, in the town shattered by plague, Lord Lonato looked grander than he ever had or ever would again, regal as any high king on any golden throne did this man of good intent look, who had come here with intent to do only good. He bore no crown, but the sunlight falling on him gently made a king's circlet about his brow, almost a halo as he sat there.

Lonato turned his head slowly to Ashe, acknowledging his presence as the boy approached warily, but he said nothing, was infinitely wise and patient in those excruciating seconds, as he waited to see if this poor child of the slums who had tried to rob him would approach. Lonato knew the ways of cats, and knew that to be too swift to approach would drive them away; you had to let _them _come to _you_.

Eventually, Ashe stood before him, and Lonato gave him a soft smile. The boy's eyes flicked back to where he'd come from, and Lonato looked to- saw two dirty faces peeking at him out of the ruins, watching their brave older brother, who took such care of them.

“ Your siblings?” Lonato asked.

Ashe swallowed against the lump in his throat and nodded.

“ You're taking care of them, then,” Lonato said, and his voice was full of respect, as he spoke to this honorable thief.

Ashe nodded again, struck mute by that sound in the man's voice, that _respect_, by his gentle smile.

“ Are they hungry, still?” Lonato asked.

Ashe took a moment, not sure he could trust this man, but Lonato did not press, just... waited.

The boy, given time to gather his courage, chose to answer.

“ Yes,” the stray tomcat said, finally nodding his head, because while they had ate, they had not eaten their fill, not since mother and father closed their eyes forever- and Ashe ate less than they did, because he had a burden and a responsibility.

Lonato's smile grew bigger, for he knew that worried tone; his voice wore it too, sometimes, when he worried for his people. Lonato owned territories, Ashe had only his siblings, but this they held in common; there was something greater than themselves that they owed a duty to.

So, from one man burdened with responsibility to another, Lonato spoke to Ashe.

“ If you come with me,” he'd said, holding out his hand, “ Then they will never go hungry again, and neither shall you.”

If he had been by himself, Ashe would have ran. His instincts told him to fear the new and the strange, and this was strange newness indeed; nobles and wealthy soldiers kicked urchins and the poor like him, they did not come to them with the sun shining behind them and offer benevolence unasked and unlooked for. They did not come like the Goddess' most elderly and unexpected angels to poor thieves, who had already tried to rob them. He was a stray cat, and stray cats ran.

But he was not alone. He was a stray cat, yes, but he had a brother and a sister to look after, whom he knew he could not keep fed... and so, after a long, trembling moment, he put his hand in Lonato's.

The old man's grip was warm and peaceful.

And so curiosity did not kill this cat, but saved him, for in that moment, Ashe and his siblings had went from a litter of unwanted orphan kittens to favored housepets, to live in a good man's castle.

As a wise woman once said, happily ever after.

-

Happy ever afters take a lot of work, but Ashe reveled in it. His work before had barely been enough to maintain him and his siblings; but now his work was bent to repaying Lord Lonato for his absolutely unbelievable benevolence, and it was more pleasant by far.

He would learn much of his second father in the following years, of this man who had come to him and his siblings and given them a home. He would learn that he was an emotional man, full of laughter and sorrow and anger all three, the kind of man who felt _deeply_, his soul a great ocean.

He would learn that he was an honorable man, concerned with his people, and that his people loved him for it; few lords were as loved as Lonato, who took such care of his people after the plague that many attributed their survival to him, and to the extensive stock of medicines he'd bought and the healers he'd employed, nearly bankrupting himself to make sure that as many of his people survived as possible.

He had been unable to save Ashe's parents, but given the effort and expenditure he had went to, that was no mark on him; the plague had been horrific, and only Lonato's extreme efforts had kept it from being worse in Gaspard than it had been. Whenever they went out, people flocked to see him, called his name, strove to touch that good man, or to throw flowers in his path; to hold up children and babes who would have died, but that Lonato had saved them.

He did not learn from this that Lonato was a good man; he had already known it. He'd known it from the moment he laid down in a soft bed with his siblings and a full stomach both.

That was a miracle, and it repeated itself every day. Ashe and his siblings ate their fill of the feast, not just once, but always, for Lonato had given his word and he kept it; they never went hungry again.

Ashe feared there would be some hidden cost, some secret blade hidden in this bounty, was old enough to know that there were _costs _to miracles, but his fears were unfounded; Lonato was not just as good as his word, he was _better_, and that was a miracle bigger than banquets and books and the healthy glow on his siblings' cheeks. Lonato had paid him honestly and in full, and then some, his cup ran over with Lonato's kindness...

In time, they were healed from their trauma. Meat grew on thin arms, bones grown fragile in times of little renewed themselves in this time of plenty, nightmares diminished in the wake of new memories of laughter and life in Lonato's house. Christophe, Lonato's eldest, was a delight, and took to mentoring his younger siblings- which is what they were, titles be damned- with a joyous heart. Ashe hadn't trusted him at first, but Christophe was cut from Lonato's cloth, and soon Ashe loved him, loved having someone older to ask questions of and rely on for the first time since his parents died.

Even their intellects, famished down to survival's needs, were fattened at this feast; for Lonato taught them to read, feeding not just their bodies but their souls.

And oh, reading, reading was a joy; Ashe would have traded almost anything for this talent that Lonato gifted him freely. He would read every book the man owned, and find himself there in those pages, as he would find Lonato. He was the poor boy, uplifted; Lonato the good man who uplifted him.

He would read those tales, in which the poor boy became a knight, to repay the lord who took him in, and he knew what he had to do. Christophe told him he didn't need to, but Ashe knew where his heart lay; Ashe knew how lucky he was, how fairy tale all this sounded. There were many nobles in Faerghus, after all, but Lonato was _noble_, the way birth and blood could not make a soul, the way a person had to _choose _to be, and Ashe got lucky, that it was Lonato's house he sought to rob.

So Ashe recognized that there _was _a cost, or at least, an expected price to pay; but this was so cheap, for what Lonato had given him, this price was so low that he did not have to use his mighty haggling skills on it, he could just accept it and pay.

In recognition of that debt, and the cost, Ashe asked Lonato to train him to be a knight.

-

He begins practicing with the lance right away. His talents turn out to be mostly archery, but it's the lance he favors. It was Lonato's weapon, after all, and he will make his not-quite-father proud.

Christophe teaches him, at first, with Lonato taking an interest too; soon Ashe is great with lances, he is legendary for his age, he participates in melees with noble children his own age and wins fights with them. Many complain of this peasant commoner being allowed in, but Lonato speaks with their parents, and the smarter families quiet their sons' bellyaching by pointing out that if the commoner _was _beating them, it was just a sign of how much more training they had to do.

The smarter kids' don't complain, and he makes friends with several of the noble kids underneath Lonato's reign; Gaspard territory has levies to call on, and the minor lords rather like Ashe, they do not see his common blood as that far beneath their own. They admire his skill, which he trains for obsessively whenever he's not reading chivalric books; he will be a peerless knight, he will be as extraordinary as Lonato was in taking him in.

Christophe tells Ashe that he will be the pride of the Blue Lions, Christophe's own former House at Garreg Mach, and gets Lonato to agree to send him, Christophe laughing and making the thief promise to go. Ashe does so with a laugh, proud to join the House, proud to make his older brother proud.

And then Christophe dies, and the happily ever after shatters in Ashe's hands.

-

It's hard to look at lances, after Christophe. Christophe, who taught him how to wield them; Christophe, who had been part of his joy.

Christophe, who is dead at Catherine's hands, though it will be some years before he knows this, before he realizes that Thunderbrand's wielder has taken so much from him.

( Catherine, who will spend years justifying Christophe's death to herself, until the day all things are revealed, Rhea's true nature comes out, and the Agarthans stand revealed; when she leaves with Shamir for new lands that are not tainted with the memory of the Archbishop she had loved, Catherine will leave behind a letter asking for Ashe's forgiveness. He will never reply. Even a peerless knight keeps grudges.)

Christophe, gone... the house not as empty as the ruined bakery, but though Lonato moves, he is dead inside, all the same. An emotional man, the great ocean of his heart tainted, sick; and Ashe cannot stomach the lance, not after Christophe.

He switches to the bow, the lance too painful to look at, and retreats within himself, as does Lonato, until time comes to go to Garreg Mach, as he'd promised Christophe he would.

-

When he is sent to Garreg Mach, Ashe... finds a new world he had not quite expected. Christophe spoke of Blue Lions engaging in friendly rivalries with Eagles and running roughshod over the Deer; but this is a weird year, for many reasons.

( Some part of Ashe wonders if they all knew that this was it, if somehow they all knew that this was the last year the Academy would exist; if they had known, somewhere inside, that these were the last days of Fodlan as it was. There was an air in the Academy, as of important events going on, and Ashe has always wondered what it was, that everyone seemed like they _knew_.)

He was excited at first to join the Blue Lions, but they are a strange house, and even as he settles into it, warning signs blink out at him, his stray cat instincts screaming like mad. In this sacred place, where he should be safe, he is not; there are things nearby, shadows of horrors just under the surface, and he is not referring to the Abyss and its ragtag inhabitants.

From each person around him, he senses danger. Claude and Byleth are the easy dangers to avoid; they are like the great stag of their House, something powerful, something strong- and those are just words that mean “dangerous”, at day's end- but they will not attack unless you cross them. They are defensive dangers, who will do no harm unless harm is done to them, and so Ashe is simply very polite to them, and their danger is neutralized. So long as you don't harm their Herd, the two of them would be peaceful enough.

The others are more dangerous. From the Church, he gets a terrible sense of... _vindictiveness_, and maybe that's just him projecting his feelings about Christophe's death, but everything he learns of Rhea and her favored servants indicates that he is on the right track. They take attacks on Rhea so _personally_, she has surrounded herself not just with bodyguards but with sycophantic servants, who worship her quite literally. They may speak of a Goddess, and of Seiros, but it is Rhea to whom their faith is turned.

( He does not see that Rhea makes favored servants of her Knights to fill the hole left by her people's genocide; that she seeks a sort of pseudo-family with them, despite her distance as Archbishop. She is, after all, the loneliest creature in all of Fodlan, save perhaps Edelgard, and it is the greatest tragedy of the times that the two were never able to sit down and talk, for they were each other's mirrors.)

From Edelgard, he gets the feeling of a dispassionate predator; Eagle is her house, but her gaze is that of a shark, calm and cold at all times, too calm, too cold, even as she plans to chew her foes up. There is no heart there, there is no compassion; there is a will like steel in her, a will that brooks neither defiance nor, unfortunately, compromise, a look that does not hate you but does not care for you, either.

He knows that look, he has seen it on far too many guards, who moved to hurl his starving form out of places of plenty. It was nothing personal, they were just doing their jobs, despite that their job would kill him, and that makes it worse than if they took awful glee in the deed; they did not have even the motivation of sadism to justify their casual cruelties. Edelgard is like that, though it will be a year before Ashe sees how right he is, and realizes just what she was willing to inflict on the innocent, for her great ambitions.

Dimitri is not so frightening in those ways, but he _is _frightening in another; Dimitri, who is so nice and so calm, sets off every hair on the back of Ashe's neck. More personal here, not a predator, but more... _enraged_, out of control, a storm inside his skin that he cannot contain. There is something in Dimitri that wants _out_, and Ashe knows deep down in his guts that, when it gets out, it will be murderous.

A Lion the school declares him, and boar Felix calls him... but Ashe sees him as a rabid dog, one that doesn't know it's been bit yet. Someday, though... someday, the beast will be out, and Dimitri will be lost when the horror inside reveals itself.

He doesn't know much of the Eagles or of the Deer, not at that point, but he learns of his Lions early on... and the men worry him. Felix reminds Ashe of Lonato, the way he has been since Christophe's death, though Felix, younger, handles it even worse, and that is quite saying something, with how Lonato's pain has swallowed him whole. Felix is a wildcat, he has the same rabid disease Dimitri does, he's just better at channeling it.

Sylvain, meanwhile, hurts too, but he inflicts his pain on others, he uses women the way other men use drink or distraction; Ashe should know, in the wake of the disease he saw so many people use anything they could to dull their hurts. Sylvain uses his hurt as an excuse to hurt others, and does not let himself know how much he enjoys his sadistic schadenfreude. He is a fox, Sylvain is, the kind who will laugh with you one second and hurt you the next.

Dedue alone of the king's retinue does Ashe like, Dedue does not make his stray cat instincts panic. If Dimitri s a dog, Felix a wildcat, and Sylvain a fox, Dedue is a large and gentle horse; noble, and elegant, and willing to leave you alone if you leave him alone. More like Claude or Byelth... but there is one thing that makes Dedue dangerous.

Dedue is so loyal to Dimitri that he refuses to see any evil in him, and it is a flaw Ashe is extremely sympathetic to- it is a knightly flaw, to be so loyal that one cannot say no, regardless of what your leader's mistakes are. Ashe has read all the books, after all, and so he recognizes in Dedue's strong heart, kindness and fanatical loyalty a specific breed of knight, the kind that ends up being the worthy opponent to the hero of the tale, even when in service to evil.

Ashe, who wishes to be a different kind of knight- to be the kind of knight Christophe should have been, the knight errant, the hero whose loyalty is not to a person but to a code- and so, despite the fact that he sees in Dedue something he rather likes, he pulls away from him. Dedue is tied to Dimitri, and Dimitri will drag down everyone around him, someday...

So with his fellow men dangerous or strapped to dangerous men, Ashe gravitates towards the women. Annette is fun, and it's hard not to like her; they meet while studying ballista trajectories, and she reminds him of himself; he has no Crest and no real advantages, none save that he is willing to train himself into the ground for his family. Annette's the same way with even less family to support her, and also cursed with a clumsiness that confuses the hell out of the agile Ashe; she has his highest respect for carrying on as she does.

Mercedes, meanwhile, he views as mostly well-meaning but destructive, because the first time he meets her, she is in the process of absolutely destroying the hell out of an oven. Her attempts at cooking spicy food were going spectacularly, explosively wrong, and the first sentence he heard her say, in perfect clarity, was this:

“ Oh, fucking hell!”

He helps her out, as she, flustered, admits that baking is her forte and how in the _world _did she get so much flammable chili oil on top of this grill? The scorch marks were going to last forever.

Still, his assistance saves the kitchen, and probably prevents at least one bout of poisoning, and she thanks him heartily. That is his first impression of Mercedes, so unlike everyone else in Garreg Mach, who views Mercedes as a perfect angel who is fundamentally incapable of doing wrong, he thinks of her as a sweet if easily angered girl who should probably stick to baking.

It endears him to the older woman. Mercedes was well aware of how others viewed her, and she did not like it, did not like being considered pure or perfect; Ashe, who has heard her curse not out of fear for another's life but out of sheer frustration like a normal human being, who has seen her fail at something, treats her like just a person, and she finds it terribly refreshing.

But the last is not the least. Ingrid, who he avoided because she stayed near Dimitri at the beginning, eventually drifted into their orbit, circling the Lions that are not so close to Dimitri, feeling pushed out as Sylvain began his final descent into being truly intolerable and Felix's wrath became too toxic to be around. Annette's gentle chaos is a balm to the lady knight, as is Mercedes' endless motherly doting... but it is Ashe she ends up liking best.

Ashe is the first person as well-read on chivalric books as she is, and the days pass nicely once she joins their little group; they discuss chivalric tales and knightly deeds, and some of the old fire, dead with Christophe, reawakens in Ashe. He had still intended to be a peerless knight, but it had been... grimmer, more of a duty, rather than the passionate thing it had once been. With Ingrid's help, the fire reawakens, and the two inspire each other to redouble their own efforts.

Still, even as nice as this group is... eventually, it begins to collapse. Mercedes leaves first, followed shortly by Annette. They follow a siren song, hearing Byleth calling them, Mercedes leaving for reasons she cannot speak and Annette running to the Deer so that she can leave the memory of her father behind her at last.

That leaves him and Ingrid, but only for a little while; she is called soon, too, following Byleth to the east.

And so he is alone for a time... until Lonato rebels.

-

“ Professer Byleth Eisner,” he said, formal as could be, bowing his head to the former mercenary in her office.

“ Yes?” she asked. Hilda is next to her, handling papers, something like a secretary. Wasn't she supposed to be very lazy? That was what he'd heard, but here she was, working her ass off. Ashe was not the most observant person, but...

Well, there was something odd here. He wondered if his fellow Lions had changed, after joining, he ponders what changes this House had worked on those he was friends with.

But he swallowed those things down, and plucked his courage up, so that he could talk about the _real _matter at hand. “ I... wish to accompany the Golden Deer as they go to Gaspard territory. I... I want to try and talk Lord Lonato out of his rebellion.”

“ We aren't heading towards the main area of the fighting,” Hilda said. “ And the Church wants his head, I don't think they'll accept a surrender.

“ Then I will accompany you until it is time to leave,” Ashe said. He would find Lonato- he would talk him down. “ And the rest... is between me and him and Lady Rhea, I suppose.”

“ Why?” Byleth asked, and Ashe sighed. He hated lying, so he told the truth.

“ He's my father, and I want to save him,” he said.

Byleth's eyes traveled, to look towards her father's office, and he thought there was a... softening... around her eyes.

When she returned her gaze to him, she nodded.

“ You have my word that, if Lord Lonato will agree to surrender, then he will survive, and he will have a chance to plead his case before Rhea,” Byleth said. “ You have my word.”

And so a lone Lion went hunting with the Herd.

-

The battle... Lonato's people, people Ashe knows, dying to Church soldiers, dying, because Lonato's grief grew so big that it spread like a plague across his lands...

( Ashe does not know it, but this is merely a preview of the horror to come, for Lonato is not the only person whose personal demons will grow to bedevil all the land... but Edelgard's rage is only just now beginning to catch fire, while Lonato's despair is finally flooding his lands, and killing as it goes.)

The battle is horrific, and Ashe never raises one hand- he can't. These are his people. He runs, moving, as the Deer slaughter good folk he has known all his life- but how can he blame them? They came under attack first, and he's heard them beg the militia to surrender. The Deer are not at fault for defending themselves, and... and it's all going _wrong_...

But his father is there, his father has done this, the same man who once saved an orphan is now the madman butchering his people on the grinder of the Church, what has happened here? In the final approach, Byleth and the Deer striking deep, Ashe carried along behind in their tailwind... as is Catherine, Catherine, who wields Thunderbrand... they reach his father.

-

“ Lord Lonato, stop this!” Ashe begged. Lonato seemed shocked he was there; he shook his head.

“ Ashe...? But no, no, you shouldn't- you should be at Garreg Mach...”

“ And these people should not be dying!” Ashe yelled. “ Lord Lonato, please, I beg you, surrender! Stop this atrocity! Your people are dying!”

The soldiers around his father glanced back and forth- their loyalty was unquestionable, but the Church had responded so utterly, so swiftly, and so many of them are already dead. It was clear that the rebellion was over and the war was lost... shouldn't Lonato surrender?

Lonato opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut short by Catherine's booming voice.

“ Surrender? Lady Rhea demands his head! And I am the Archbishop's executioner!”

She strode forward, to take Lonato down... and paused, as a single figure stepped out of the Golden Deer.

Byleth.

“ Out of the way, professor,” Catherine said, but Byleth shook her head- the thinnest of movements, barely rustling her hair.

“ Not until Ashe has a chance to talk him down,” Byleth replied.

“ Lady Rhea ordered his death,” Catherine answered- and then took note that Byleth's hand was on her sheathed sword, and her stance was a fighting stance.

Catherine looked her in the eyes, this stranger to Gareg Mach, who Rhea paid so much attention too, who made the jealous and hurtful thing in Catherine's heart throb, and she saw... nothing.

The woman once called Thunderstrike Cassandra for her power, who bore a Hero's Relic in her hand, who had slain scores of men as casually as others breathed... looked in those quiet, fearless eyes, and in the face of Byleth and a cheap, nameless sword of iron, took a single step back.

“ What are you intending to do?” Catherine asked, eyes narrowing, even as she fought her hands, which wanted to... _tremble._ Dear Goddess, what the hell? Ashen Demon or not, she shouldn't feel like _this_...

“ I told Ashe he would have a chance to talk him down,” Byleth said, in that empty monotone, and Catherine swallowed heavy against the dryness in her throat. Catherine feared no one... but she was learning to, looking into those empty eyes. “ If he surrenders, we will take him prisoner, and then I and Rhea will have a talk about what to do with him. If he surrenders, he will live. I gave my word.”

“ Rhea ordered-” But Catherine is stalled, because she now realizes that not only will she apparently be fighting Byleth, but that her eagerness to enter combat has put her in the midst of the Golden Deer- who all look like they'll back up their teacher. Claude has an arrow nocked and ready to draw, Hilda's gripping an axe tight, and while Marianne is desperately praying that this doesn't come to blows, she _also _has frost forming on her fingertips, ready to hurl at Catherine.

Teenagers or not, Thunderbrand in her fist or not, going solo against the entire House has odds Catherine does not think she'll survive... and there is something else, something more, Byleth has a _pressure _from her that Catherine has only ever felt in Rhea's presence before, some inner weight that teaches her the fear of God.

( Sothis on the inside, weighing in, as deadset as Byleth is... not merged with her yet, not become part of her blood and bone, but the process has begun.)

So Catherine stands there, the woman whom armies could not stop halted by a glance, and for a few seconds, no one did anything, no one _could_.

“ Enough,” Lonato's voice rang out. “ I... thank you... but let me face my son's killer. I did not... Ashe is right, the townspeople did not deserve this... but my son, my Christophe, is still dead. Ashe... let this foolish man... have one last battle. A chance for revenge against my son's killer.”

Ashe looked at the old man, his face deadset on Catherine.

“ Lord Lonato, she'll... she'll kill you,” he whispered to his father.

Lonato nodded to him... and then smiled, he was, for just a moment, the man he had been before grief warped him, the man who had seen a thief stare in awe at a book and felt only mercy and pity.

“ I'm proud of you, my boy,” Lonato said. “ You are a fine and honorable man... and I am so proud of you. Be better than me. Take care of my lands and my people, as I should have done, instead of throwing them into this... pointless bloodshed. And let me face Catherine, so that none of you die or suffer dishonor.”

Ashe could not condemn his father to death... but he could not condemn the Deer, either, and so he stepped aside, and nodded to Byleth.

Byleth stepped aside as well, giving a small nod of her head to Lord Lonato and Catherine both, and when the duo stepped forward, they had their duel at last.

-

Catherine killed him, of course. Lonato had been a fine warrior in his time, but fine warriors were a dime a dozen in the Kingdom of Faerghus, and he had aged besides. Catherine was a legend, and had a Hero's Relic. Lonato lasted as long as he did, and put up as good of a fight as he did, only because Catherine was still rattled from her confrontation with Byleth. The one good blow Lonato got was the one that knocked her back to her senses, and she slew him shortly thereafter.

Ashe had known how it would end, but he had watched it until the last, anyway, even as Linhardt, out of a misplaced sense of kindness, reached out to turn him away; Ingrid had stopped him. Ingrid, who got it, the way no one else did. Who knew why he had to watch, even as her own eyes blurred with tears, who explained it quietly to the healer, who could not understand, who abhorred violence even as his life forced him to submerge himself in it.

Ashe had to see this. He had watched his mother and father die once, already; he would watch his second father die. He would do him the honor of seeing his ending, even if he had to do it through a veil of tears.

And when it was done, he asked for the body, and Raphael, Ingrid, Hilda and Dorothea, of all people- Dorothea, who seemed to understand the cost of war better than any of them, even in those earliest of days when the fire of her spirit still burned strong inside her- carried the body back, to be buried in Ashe's home besides Christophe. It was a march of hours, and none complained, none faltered, as he led them to his second father's final resting place.

When they brought him to the plot, he grabbed a shovel and began to dig, but he got only an inch in before he started to sob, to bawl, to wail and weep... and they take his burden from him, these Deer, gentle hands lift the terrible task from his shoulders and do the work in his stead. They dig, these Deer, this strangest of Houses, who seem like... more... in those moments, who seem to _understand. _This act of highest dishonor that they perform, for _him, _they do not care that he is not one of them; they care only that this is what should be done. From the House of the flippant and the sarcastic comes this wisdom and understanding of what is truly righteous.

He is of no help, none at all, his heart is broken, but the Deer do not press on him to splint it together again before its time; they merely dig, they dig until it is deep enough. Their visages are images he glimpses between his wailing sobs. The four pallbearers, bearing up their charge stoically during the dig, not letting him touch the ground despite the burning in their arms. Ignatz and Byleth keeping watch, to make sure the Knights of Seiros do not interfere, Annette with them to provide magical punch, should it come to blows.

Claude, Lord of the House, a duke, his fancy clothes slick with mud as he does the work of a common laborer. Hilda beside him, digging and digging, having gotten more shovels out from the yard's warehouse- and how has he ever thought her lazy? She works without complaint, pink hair dripping with brown dirt, mingling with the gold of Claude's cloak... and now he gets it, he gets why brown and gold are the Deer's colors. Gold, for the greatness in them, but brown, too, because they do not fear getting their hands dirty, even for a stranger like him.

In time, it is done, the Deer's dirtied hands leaving his clean so that he may help put his father in the grave. Wearied from battle and the long march here, nonetheless have the Golden Deer dug his father's grave for him. Dirtied, sweating, exhausted, and Ashe has never seen such greatness, he has never seen such glory; for a moment, through the tears, he thinks he sees crowns on their heads, though it is gone in the next eyeblink.

When it is done, Raphael plants his father's makeshift gravestone, a warrior's cairn- his lance, flag fluttering above it, buried in the dirt by the Giant of Leceister's great strength.

Ashe will replace that later, find something more permanent, but this is more than acceptable for now, and Mercedes says a short prayer for the dead before they cover him back up and return to the camp, Ashe finally able to recover enough to walk alongside them.

The Knights of Seiros are deeply unhappy about it, and silence reigns both that night and on the march back. Traitors should be buried in unmarked graves, after all, are not allowed to rest in holy ground; but Catherine does not want to press the issue until they're back home, and even when she brings the issue up with Rhea, the archbishop dismisses it.

Byleth is allowed to get away with it, and while it sparks a rivalry with Catherine that lasts until the school is shut down, the war begins and everyone has bigger problems to worry about, Lonato is allowed to rest in peace beside his wife and son.

( Catherine will wonder, for a long time, what Rhea meant when she said, “ A higher authority has granted Lord Lonato leave to stay in that grave. Let him rest; we have no right to gainsay it.” Time will come that she will understand, in the end, as she realizes what Byleth has become, and the two will bury the hatchet before Catherine leaves with Shamir, the two in love and destined to become legends in distant lands.)

It is the last kindness Ashe could do him, and his greatest and final act of thievery- to steal his dead father from dishonor.

-

“ Professor... Byleth,” Ashe works up the will to ask, a week later. “ Would you have fought Catherine for me?”

“ Yes,” Byleth says, without hesitation. “ I gave my word.”

The tears are hot in Ashe's eyes as he realizes how serious she was, how much she meant this great thing, said so simply.

Byleth favors him with that neutral glance- but there is the smallest crease in her face, the tiniest hardening, and Ashe realizes that this is the sign of her great concern, this strange, emotionless woman who had nonetheless been willing to battle a living legend for a boy she did not know.

She is a thing of fairy tale, too, Ashe realizes, the same as he is; if Ashe is the lowborn knight, then Byleth is the helpful fae, strange and inhuman yet still kind, the sort that blessed blades against evil and warded the innocent from harm. Strange and alien, but that did not mean _evil, _though many confused the terms...

He is in the presence of greatness, he realizes, some fae queen who cannot break her oaths, and she has shown him great favor in granting him her promise. She had been willing to pit cheap iron against Thunderbrand itself to keep her word... and so he pays her proper homage. Ashe bends down to one knee, and bows to her, as deeply as he can, the way he would bow down to royalty itself.

“ Thank you,” he says, and though he will never say any more of the matter, he will show his regard and pay his debt in another way; that night, he files to be transferred to the Deer.

He owes them a debt he cannot repay, but he will try. He must give back. This was another lucky break in his life, another fairy tale moment, though this one hurts so much more than the others do... and so he owes a greater debt.

He must take up the lance again... if this is a thing of fairy tales, then he must be one too, he must be a peerless knight, the way Ingrid hopes to be. He must take up that weapon, take that fire up inside himself again, though he cannot work up the will to do so. Not just yet.

So Ashe signs on with the Deer, and when Ferdinand joins in a week's time, fleeing the dismissal of a dark mage and an Emperor, the Deer are rendered whole, though they do not know it at the time.

-

After the Tomb- after that desperate battle in the dark- Ashe is, perhaps, the only person not surprised by Byleth's acquisition of the Sword of the Creator. Oh, he is surprised at the _specifics_, but he is not surprised that Byleth has been singled out by destiny. He had known for a month that she had pure greatness within her; the Tomb merely confirms his suspicions.

It also brings him a sense of closure. The Western Church leaders who had manipulated Lord Lonato- who had tricked his father to his death- are found, and they are to die; Ashe requests that he be allowed to attend, and though Catherine opposes it, Rhea grants it.

“ You have a right to see your family's murderers pay,” she confides in him privately, the mask of the Archbishop slipping off to show Rhea as she really was, and Ashe will wonder about that for a long time, that woman who had sympathized with his need to see justice done.

( Later, when things come to a head, when all truth is out... he will realize why Rhea would not deny him a chance to see justice for his father's murder.)

Ingrid asks to join, and she is allowed to, after a moment's consideration by Rhea- but she sees how Ingrid supports Ashe, and the Deer are her favorite House these days, so she allows it.

When the day comes, and the traitors die, the two of them are the only Deer present, though all the remaining Lions are there, this being a Faerghus matter. No Eagles attend, which will be rather amusing, later, a warning sign they all missed.

(Edelgard had considered going, some pang of guilt in her heart for the actions of herself and her allies, but... she cannot turn back. And so she takes another step on the long road to hell, the road that leads to her dead in Enbarr and all Adrestia dead alongside her, the Empire dead because Edelgard sought to make it live forever. It is the story of her life, her ambition and her regrets clashing, always clashing, the Emperor fighting the shy girl inside, Edelgard always, always working at cross-purposes with herself until the day came her own dreams devoured her, body and soul, and both halves of her were lost entirely.)

This strange group watches the traitors die, and while it does not ease the ache in his heart, it _does _bring Ashe some peace, to know that the ones who hurt him so are dead. Those who dismiss revenge's healing benefits have never known its peace, and this revenge by proxy tastes sweet to him.

Ingrid throws a friendly arm around his shoulder, and he leans into it for comfort. Dimitri gives Ashe a questioning look, asking if he's alright, as he stands there with his remaining Lions, and that image will stay with Ashe all his life; Dimitri, curious, Dedue next to him stoic, Sylvain with an easy smile over the horrible hatred inside him, and Felix, who complains but tags along anyway, more interested in being seen shunning them than in actually shunning them.

It is the image he will remember when Hilda brings him word of Dimitri's death, the feral madman brought low, finally, by waves of Adrestian spears. Sylvain will die there, too, all the truth he could not speak to Felix stopped forever by the spear in his throat, dying like a true knight for a king and a country and a system he hated.

Dedue will live, only to die rushing Edelgard in her own palace, the last victim she will claim in her war, Aymr sticky with his blood as she faces off with the Deer. Perhaps it is fitting, that Faerghi blood will be the last thing on her face, a fitting look for the woman history will call the Beast of Enbarr.

Felix will suffer the worst of it, for Felix will be the last Lion, finally set free of the pride he so pretended to dislike... and he will wander the world alone, to die long years afterwards in a foreign land far from home, unmourned and unloved.

But that is evil yet to come; for now, Ashe simply shakes his head at Dimitri, who had wondered if he needed anything, and then Ashe and Ingrid left, for they had shed Lion pelts to take up the Deer's antlers.

And so, at peace with himself, when they return, he will begin sparring with Ingrid, using the long lance his father and his brother taught him.

( He will marry Ingrid, in time, one peerless knight to another, because he is the only person who will ever look at Ingrid and see her as she truly is. Sylvain saw a childhood friend, Felix a rival for Sylvain's affections, even Dorothea mistakes Ingrid for one who is as hurt by the war as she is; but Ashe sees her, recognizes the bloodthirst and honor that make her up in equal measure, and he does not value one over the other. She will marry him, and they will join their lands, the bounty of Gaspard feeding hungry Galatea, as Lonato, once upon a time, fed three siblings.)

( And after long years of great service, in which the people of their combined land prosper under their wise hands, the two will write the first modern novel, about a wise man from the East who met a Goddess, and fought a southern tyrant. They will mythologize their fellow Deer, and in writing fictional tales of their lives, they will preserve the truth of them in memory forever; schools around the world will teach of the book, for Ferdinand will teach of it in Brigid, and all the world will follow his educational example. The story- and thus, the truth- will last all the days of Fodlan.)


	7. Dorothea: A Crown Held in Common

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my computer ate most of my writing, but I'm back anyway baby!
> 
> Dorothea- the BEST character, and damn near my favorite save for Claude alone. I hope I do her justice!
> 
> Note that there is an attempted rape Dorothea describes- growing up poor and alone on the streets of Enbarr is not a good recipe for safety- so if that triggers you, feel free to skip. It's not detailed overmuch, but I'd rather warn people beforehand.

**Dorothea Arnault**

**A Crown Held in Common**

The Deer come to their true selves in many ways. Lysithea has always known who she was supposed to be, as she will tell the others later, when she talks of Charon and they see the bulk of Catherine, the meat that should have been on their mage's bones. Others realize it through the great events around them, small revelations of their true nature- Marianne with her spears, for example, the slow understanding that has made her a premier pikewoman.

Dorothea comes to her true self by accident.

She is singing in choir with Byleth and Marianne one day, early into her acceptance into the Deer, and for no real reason other than joy, Dorothea decides to put her whole heart into it. Despite everything, she really _does _love singing, and today she decides not to be quiet; today, she decides to belt it out.

Her voice is clean and clear over everyone else's, the lungs of steel that once filled Mittelfrank's stadium ringing off every stone of Garreg Mach, over and above everyone else. Even the choir coordinator, who has seen a hundred great voices come and go, has tears in their eyes as Dorothea finishes her last lingering note.

When it is done, there is a round of applause for her. She bows, daintily and delicately, and Marianne, next to her, smiles.

“ Praise the Goddess,” the depressed bluenette said.

Dorothea, feeling cheeky, gave her a wink.

“ Praise me, Marie- it was my own hard work, not the Goddess.”

And that, it turns out, is how you start a life-long rivalry. Marianne, furious, had harangued her, religion the one subject she was comfortable enough with to fight someone on, her issues be damned. Dorothea, surprised and amused at the fire in the sad woman's eyes, egged her on and stoked that flame to a fine and high pitch.

She'd done it for fun, but also because she thought it might be good for her Housemate. It's good to see a fire in the bluenette's dead eyes, something more than the overwhelming pain that seems to roll off of her in waves almost physical; of all the people in Garreg Mach, Marianne is the saddest and lowest, and Dorothea would help that. She recognizes in Marianne's face the terrible hopelessness she saw so often on the streets, and- in her heart of hearts- it is a face Dorothea wore, once, when she was a starving orphan, and every day was a horrifying scramble to just... survive.

So Dorothea, who is gentle and sweet on the inside, whose travails have not made her cruel, willingly plays villain to Marianne, so that, for a little while, the bluenette is not sad, but full of righteous fervor.

( Dorothea and Claude will realize this only after two decades of knowing each other, but they are remarkably similar in this much; both have suffered, but both turn that suffering to greater ends. For all the war they will win, and the accolades the future will give them, this is their greatest triumph: they have suffered, and they have still chosen to do good. It is the stone upon which all their glories will be built.)

Still, Dorothea is a bit thrown off by how out of her depth she is, when facing Marianne. Marianne whips her good in each argument, too educated in religion to be beaten by Dorothea's admittedly lackadaisical knowledge. The Goddess had never given her even a scrap of bread or a drink of water, not when she was in need, and so Dorothea holds that there are random citizens of Adrestia who are greater than the Goddess- citizens who gave her full meals, or a place to sleep, or one man whose name she will never know, who found her dying in an alley of the cold and carried her into his home, and let her stay two long weeks, until the blizzards had passed and it was safe to be outside again.

( She will never be able to repay that man, but she hopes he is doing well, she hopes he knows that she thinks of him often. He is Lonato's kin, for he saw one who suffered and he gave what he could, and with no ulterior motive but that he thought it was the right thing to do.)

These people are greater, she holds, because they actually gave help, whereas the Goddess is an empty word to Dorothea; she had not come to Garreg Mach for enlightenment, after all, but to find someone who can keep her in money and health. Her goals are material, because that is all that is truly real; only those who had never been without can claim otherwise.

Still, she doesn't like losing so easily. It doesn't sit well with the starlet; she's beaten in too many subjects by her fellow students already, she is well-rounded but she is surrounded by specialists. She's not as good of a sword-wielder as some of the others, nor as accomplished a mage, for all that she is a fine sword-wielder and a fine mage.

So in her spare time, she decides to hit the books, and study up on faith.

( The argument apparently lights a fire in her, too.)

She gets into the library by flashing her Golden Deer badge, new and heavy with meaning on her shirt, though privately Dorothea- who is, in the ways that matter most, the oldest of the students at Garreg Mach- thinks the whole House system is rather silly. Nationalism didn't need the help, and the Houses themselves amuse her with their strange symbolism... particularly the Alilance's House.

Golden Deer.

A silly name for a silly House; when Claude greeted her and reminded her that their official cheer was “Fear the Deer”, she'd almost walked back out. Golden Deer, a mish-mosh if there ever was one, much like the merchant citystates it came from, the strange almost-republic of the Alliance.

Dorothea had only come because Byleth had a charm and an authority that could not be denied, and the mercenary had seemed... strangely determined to get her to join. Byleth had her eyes set on Dorothea from the moment they met, had been trying to get her to join from the start, and eventually the strange woman's overtures proved... fortuitous.

Fortuitous... because a problem had arisen. Dorothea was the only true commoner amongst the Black Eagles' greater alumni; Petra was technically a commoner, too, but her status as a vassal nation's princess brought more respect. Dorothea was the only lowborn officer... and too many were determined to never let her forget it. The other officers were alright, didn't treat her poorly... but the Houses were bigger than that, much bigger, and Adrestia was such an old nation with such a storied history that many of the “common” soldiers serving the Black Eagles were lesser nobility themselves.

And none wanted to take orders from a lowborn girl.

Too often were their orders, and whispers, and looks... and Dorothea, who had once survived on the streets of Enbarr with nothing more than her own wits, knew that worse was coming besides. Dorothea challenged too many ideas, she was too bright and bold and out there... and sometimes, Dorothea thought her room had been gone through. Sometimes, things weren't... quite right.

Her street sense, never forgotten, was roaring awake here in this monastery, where she was supposed to be safe... but supposed to be is not the truth, it never is. It had not yet escalated, but she could feel it coming; times would grow tough if she stayed.

She could turn to one of her fellow officers; but after all the things she had done to get into Garreg Mach, after all the nobles she'd... _performed _for, she could not stomach the idea of being in debt to another. Her fellow officers would not treat her as an equal if she could not command even her own troops.

So she had fled, and to her surprise, this cynical songstress had found it made her... happy. She'd done her research, and knew that the Alliance was more... accepting, of exceptional commoners like herself... but she had not known what that would _feel _like. She had expected formal acceptance and whispered rumors, the way it always goes- she just thought the whispers would be quieter.

But amongst this strange and chaotic crew of Alliance fools, this Imperial songstress finds no one calls her insults behind her back. She finds, to her delight and surprise both, that her status brings her no harm here. There are whispers, but none care for her background. Everyone in the Alliance is always scheming against everyone else, everyone is a whispering voice, but it's oddly fair in its nature, and surprisingly honest; everyone is a schemer, they make no distinction here between low and high in that regard, and they _all know it_, that is the great secret that makes the Alliance function despite itself.

Yes, everyone has some plan or another; but every _one_ has a plan or another, common or noble, and _every _one knows it, and that knowledge keeps them honest with each other. Even the people who aren't scheming are open and honest about not being schemers, and so the strange jumble of a nation carries on.

So her status is no burden on her dreams, she is not damned by an accident of birth to be low forever. Even Lorenz, who pays more attention than anyone to the difference, does not use it as excuse to treat her poorly, but as a burden and a duty he must live up to, and she must admit that she finds it almost... charming; if that was how nobility worked in the Empire, it would be a wonderful place to live, and she might be an Eagle yet.

But there are few like him anywhere, and so she has left. In the Empire, nobility is a high thing, and commoners are very low. But in the Leceister Alliance, it seems, where everyone schemes and everyone knows it, the nobles are not so high, and the commoners not so low; and so people like her, who sit astride the gap, do not have to stretch so far, and are not considered so poorly on either side of the divide.

Oh, yes, there are schemes aplenty, but impossibly the Alliance has _freedom, _too. There is space, in the land of gold and brown, for the strange, for the unusual, the unique, the not-quite-fit-ins of the world... for people like her.

She... she finds herself at peace here, in this House. Before the Tomb, before they are reforged and remade in the crimson glow of the Sword, Dorothea alone of all Byleth's converts finds her heart turning to Leceister. She does not need the Tomb to turn her into a Deer; she likes them here, and she adopts them wholeheartedly.

She likes Leonie, warrior goddess, who is nearly as lowborn as Dorothea is, but who is accepted as a fellow knight and warrior among her classmates. She likes Claude, who is a schemer and a liar, too, but who bends all his plans to helping his friends, who is the most benevolent trickster in all the world. She even likes the ones they bring in, except Ferdie, and she can tolerate him if she has to.

( She will forgive him in time, when she realizes the mistake, when they talk during the war, during one of her lowest points, and forge a friendship that will last all their lives.)

She does not regret clipping her own wings and taking up a pair of antlers. She is even thinking, when school is over, and life begins again, that she... might head east, with her classmates. The Alliance could always use more culture, as Lorenz consistently says, and during a talk with him and Ignatz, the artist even convinced Lorenz to sponsor Dorothea, should she wish to start an opera career in the Alliance. It is a tremendous gift, and she thanks him for it, this strange boy, not quite a man, whose general obnoxiousness is compensated for by his strange bursts of generosity and kindness.

( He will grow to be the best of them, someday, and Dorothea will always be amused that Leonie, of all people, will get him as her husband; had Dorothea known what kind of man Lorenz would grow up to be, the fine and mature Lord he would become, she thinks she would have tried to ensnare him herself.)

She still wants a husband- or a wife, Leceister is not picky about such things and neither is she- someone to protect her in her old age, someone whose money can compensate when her looks droop and her voice fails... but Lorenz's offer makes her think that she might have a backup option, should she find no one who wants to share their life with an orphan.

The idea makes the future, a source of terror for her, feel less awful, and for that alone, she is grateful to Lorenz.

But those are thoughts of tomorrow, those are thoughts of yet to be. Tonight, she has a debate to win.

The newborn fawn, who someday will swear an oath of allegiance under a flag of shining gold, who someday will be the most loyal patriot of Leceister and write them an anthem that will last forever, studies faith in the library, that she might argue with sweet Marie all the better.

-

The study pays off. Marianne doesn't find her victories so easy anymore, and Dorothea's sweet war cry of “ Marie~” is now a well-worn thing, Dorothea's favorite opening salvo.

The arguments escalate into full-on theological debates, always after choir, and they become part of the ceremony as much as the singing itself; the coordinator gives up trying to stop them three days in. Other students eagerly await the coming festivities, Marianne too angry to notice the attention, and Dorothea careful not to attract enough to overwhelm the poor thing.

Marianne has apparently decided it's her job to correct Dorothea's theological mistakes, and Dorothea loves making them, and so the battle becomes eternal, lasts for months, even as so much else changes around them. Through the Flame Emperor, through death and horror and torment, still do they debate.

It's fun; it brings Marianne out of her shell, it is nice to see the fire inside the girl. Dorothea is the one person who can get under her skin, and she finds she actually likes it; it's good to see what it does to Marie, it gives the reclusive and scared girl a belly full of fire.

No one's ever cured depression or pain with aggression before, but Dorothea's interested to see if she can be the first.

The arguments are always over trivia, nothing substantial, which is probably why they foment such vitriol. Nothing's as irritating as an effectively meaningless point, the mental version of a papercut. Dorothea does that deliberately; she wants to provoke Marianne, not hurt her, so she steers away from discussions of fundamental truths and delves into meaningless apocrypha. Things that don't hurt to argue about, things one can be safely angry about. She is, after all, a nice person, and likes to think she's even a good person, and she doesn't want to hurt Marianne- life has done that enough.

She just wants to see that pain in her eyes recede, let her forget, just for a little while, her terrible hurts.

It's just like the opera again- playing a role. She never played the villainess before, she was too young and far too pretty- given her beauty, popularity and soprano nature, Dorothea almost always played the heroine, the opera company didn't want to risk her earning audience's disfavor by playing hated characters- but she must admit, it's a blast. She's enjoying her antagonistic role, relishes the strut and taunt of it; no wonder Manuela always stole these roles, this is fun.

And... it settles Dorothea, to play this role of faux-aggression, when actual aggression in the real world begins to ramp up, begins to... to bother her, in some way. She maintains outward pep, boasts and struts and fights... but the bloodshed Byleth subjects them to is beginning to do something to her, there are days when she cannot speak for the fear in her throat, there are times when some nameless terror sneaks up on her and she loses minutes at a time to pure fear.

It has no name she knows, this... sensation, and the times it strikes her are rare... but present they are. Somehow, this pretense of evil helps her deal with the real thing that haunts her.

Even with Dorothea's studies, Marianne usually crushes her, burying her under the weight of her arguments and sheer broad knowledge of the subject... but Dorothea has gotten good at bringing up some obscure religious fact she's found in her independent studies that sets Marianne on a back foot, and she loves watching Marianne flail as she considers whatever ridiculous point Dorothea has found.

Even when she can't, even when Marianne simply runs her down, Dorothea doesn't mind losing; it keeps that flame in Marianne's eyes, and part of the fun of being the bad guy is that you get to lose, always to return the next day, raring to go again. The recurring fights are too fun to feel anything else about it.

To her everlasting pride, Dorothea even drags Lady Rhea into it once, the archbishop- who had just been passing by, talking quietly with Seteth about something or another-taking an interest in their conversation as it grew more heated. The way Rhea's eyebrow quirked as the songstress gave a well-crafted, and patently absurd, argument about why one should not bathe, using nothing more than a few saintly teachings on spiritual cleanliness taken wildly out of context, will be one of Dorothea's little treasures forever, a sweet memory to her even in bad times.

Seteth had looked terribly uncomfortable, but Rhea had seemed impressed and amused both, particularly once Marianne, too angry and distracted by Dorothea to be overwhelmed by the archbishop's presence, exploded on her, tearing into her.

( The teachings Dorothea used and abused were attributed to Cichol; knowing that, and knowing who Seteth truly was, made the memory even funnier in Dorothea's mind, in later years.)

Lady Rhea, hearing Marianne's fervor, had favored them both with a bold, honest laugh, praising them for their dedication and ingenuity, and stating she was glad the Church still inspired such passion.

Poor Marie froze up at that, locking up, but Dorothea was able to coax her back out of her shell- gently, this time, taking her to eat some favored things, and bringing her things to take care of Dorte with. She _did _like Marianne, and while she wasn't sure sweet Marie knew that, she didn't want to hurt her.

But reading what she does... it gives her a new perspective on faith. It wasn't that she became a believer. She was an Imperial at heart, Deer or not, and her atheist leanings do not change at all. It just doesn't strike her as sensible, that someone might be in charge of it all; if lord and master the world had, chaos seemed more likely an answer than a specific thing that was like a person.

Still... the ideals she reads... she finds that her heart cannot help but love them. Even as strange as she finds the idea of calling on a Goddess, she finds the virtues espoused in these texts to be worthy things. She is aware- everyone is- that the Church doesn't hold up to those ideals in practice, but... these writers, these saints, there is fire there, real and alive. True believers, most of them, and so they are purer than the Church that pretends to follow them.

There are ideas in these words, ideas of equality, ideas of hope and love, that everyone is equal beneath the Goddess. That speaks to her; she is an outsider in so many ways, not a noble but not really a commoner anymore either, and the idea of a place she belongs is... comforting.

It's a fantasy, of course; but then the opera was just a fantasy too, and people paid good money to go there, to dream a collective dream for a little while, to have their heartstrings tugged. And the Church was the biggest fantasy of them all, it was paid the most good money in all the world to dream the biggest collective dream of them all, to tug the hardest on the heartstrings...

Dorothea gets that. And it is such a beautiful dream... a world where no one will look at her and think less of her for her birth, a world of equality... an impossible dream, but one she can approve of. One she might fight for, in another life, one she might kill and die for, no matter the terror in her skull.

( Dorothea sympathizes with Edelgard's dreams, even if she cannot bring herself to agree with the horrors the princess commits in the name of achieving them. There are roads paved with good intentions, but they do not lead to paradise...)

-

One day, Dorothea approaches Linhardt with a question. She is curious; she has been studying the holy texts, after all, but she feels no call to healing, and she wonders how Linhardt, who is openly rather atheistic, manages the feat.

“ How do you use healing magic?” she asks him, one day. This is before the Tomb, before the Herd were one; the songstress and the sleeper are the first Eagles to join the Herd, and they congregate to each other naturally, even if both have found friends Linhardt was the first Eagle recruited, was the first person Byleth poached from another class at all, just as Ferdinand will be the last; Dorothea will wonder about that, sometimes, but will never ask. She will never know why Linhardt came, and it is a gift to him that she does not ask; by the time she thinks to do so, she will know his opinion about the past, and how it must be left behind, and she will honor his wishes.

( He came, as she will never know, because Byleth begged him to, the strange and stoic mercenary almost breaking down in tears in her desperation to get him to join her House. Her pleas had brought the almost-emotionless woman to a terrible turmoil, something she half-glimpsed in dreams that Linhardt saw in the depths of her eyes- an ocean of blood, washing out of the south, a mockery of holy water that would cleanse all Fodlan of its sins by burying them under new ones. Linhardt has his suspicions, suspicions later proven correct... but he stays silent at the school, in hopes that Byleth can accomplish whatever it is the strange woman is doing, this desperate act of salvation.)

“ Faith,” he replied to Dorothea back then, a textbook answer. “ That's how light magic is channeled for humans- elements of devotion and hope in the mind link the regenerative magics to our will, allowing us to heal others.”

“ Or burn them,” Dorothea said with false cheer... but Linhardt's shudder was quite real.

“ If... if we must,” he admitted.

( Let this be remembered first; Linhardt was a good man, perhaps the _best _of Garreg Mach's students. He alone knew life's true value, how precious it was, and mourned even the worst humans they killed, knowing who they could have been.)

Dorothea's eyes narrowed, then she sighed. “ It's hard, isn't it?” she said, dropping the pretense and speaking honestly to her fellow Adrestian. “ Fighting... hurting people.”

He nodded. “ If I never do another human harm so long as I live, it will be too soon.”

( As it turned out, he had half a decade of war before him... but he knew that not at the time, was still innocent.)

Dorothea smiled at him, a genuine smile, and he gave her one in return; and perhaps that was the start of all that would be between them, in the future- an abhorrence of violence, and two genuine smiles from two people who did not normally give them out, either from habitual deception or sheer laziness.

“ Same here,” she said. “ But the question stands. How can you heal? You're not very religious.”

“ No,” Linhardt said. “ That's irrelevant, though. Faith is... not just the Church. Faith... hmm. I have faith in reason, paradoxical as that must sound. I have faith that learning, and human intelligence, can unlock all the secrets of the universe... and that faith is strong enough to heal.”

He yawned. “ Sorry, this is a bit draining... might I take my leave of you? I need a nap.”

She nodded, and as the man left, Dorothea wondered if there was anything she believed in like that, believed in so much that it could set her hands on fire like a sunset.

-

She reads over the prayers, and memorizes one or two, and wonders what it would be like to pray them, and _mean _them. Not to a Goddess, who does not exist; but as a mantra for herself, a chant, to remind her what she believes in, what kind of world she wants to see, even if she has no power to see it through. Something to focus on, to believe in.

She tries it on. Just to see if it's her size. Like a new dress, or shoes not quite worn in yet. In times of trouble, she reminds herself to pray, or even when she simply feels... lost, directionless, a feeling that grips her from time to time, a feeling that grips her _because _of time. Goddess, time is her enemy, she can feel it ticking away under her feet, stealing her beauty and her voice from her, and they are all she has...

In those times, she forces herself to pray. When the sneaking horror catches her again and she is paralyzed with memories of battles already over, of battlefields she will never see again, she prays, too, and... it... helps.

Not much. Just a little.

But a little is more than nothing, and she finds her mind going places the prayer's writers never intended, as she grows closer to her fellows in the Third House. A prayer meant to call on the Goddess' kindness makes her think of pink hair and faithfulness, of a woman who donated a set of beautiful, handcrafted ornaments, worth a fortune, to the songstress, because she believed her friend should have nice things. A prayer of the Goddess' bounty makes her think of blonde hair and a man tall as a giant, who knows their favorite meals and brings them surprise snacks sometimes, because he thought they needed a pick-me-up. A prayer for peace sees green hair and a sleepy face, whose gentle hands would always heal rather than hurt, of a backbone like steel in a man soft as silk.

A prayer for hope makes her think, strangely, of Almyran skin under Leceister clothes, of a man with a laugh bigger than the sun, who leads this House.

She's not sure why. But... though she finds she has no faith in the Goddess, she finds faith in... her friends, strangely. And that is a strange feeling, she's never had friends before, not like this; no one was there in her youth, and in the opera she had admirers and enemies, but not just... friends. Even sweet Marie, a friend she enjoys annoying...

So it is that in her late teens does Dorothea Arnault finally make a few friends, and that is absurd but true. Would be horrifying, if she thought more on it... but perhaps Linhardt is wise. Maybe the past is best left behind.

-

Dorothea settles into her role in the House as a caretaker, of sorts. She finds it is in her nature, that she has not shed all of her wings- she retains enough to be a kind of mother hen, taking care of those around her. Perhaps it's because she never had anyone to dote on before, but she finds she is good at this work; this House of Gold does not truly need it, but they all seem to like it, and that's good enough for her. She gives rags to Leonie for her endless repairs and arranges for Ignatz to get free art supplies, she fusses over Annette's hair when the clumsy girl's disasters destroy it and assists Petra when the girl's troubles with language frustrate her. She is ever-present when arguments erupt to soothe tempers- or to pick a winner, in those rare dust-ups where one party was clearly in the right.

Sometimes she does this work for those who are not even Golden Deer yet- as she did when she helped Ashe bury his father, standing for long hours as the others dug, holding Lonato up so that he not touch the ground until it was time to lower him in. Her body had ached and hurt and her muscles trembled... but she had done it, because Ashe deserved _closure_, dammit.

( Dorothea does not know this, has far too much self-hatred internalized from far too many hurtful comments, but she is a _good _person, she is among the best at Garreg Mach; even her dreams are innocent, despite the woman's general cynicism. Dorothea wants only for everyone to live, to be happy, to get along... Of all those hurt by Edelgard's betrayal, by Edelgard's decision that achieving her goals in her brute-force, monstrous way was more important to her than finding another way, it is Dorothea who will cry the most, when she stands over Edelgard's shattered corpse in Enbarr... and it is Dorothea who will be most comforted by Claude's futile, last-ditch attempt to get Edelgard to just _stop_.)

These things are simply a part of her self-appointed job; she takes care of them, it's what she does. This House that has treated her so well, that are her first friends... she treats them well. She's not Hilda, their endlessly efficient drill sergeant, Claude's good right hand, nor is she that wise man himself... but she is there to provide a second layer of oversight and comfort, and in a House so large, they need that kind of person, they need someone to go to when things are a bit bigger than they can handle but not worth bothering Hilda or Claude. A third in command, of sorts.

But the wonderful thing is this: as she takes care of them, so too do they take care of her. Mercie cooks little meals for her, terrible things of great sweetness- and she notices that they come after she has a bad day, when the terror is close. Mercie is paying attention to her, and making sure she has a little thing to eat after the bad days, a little pick-me-up from the holy woman's masterful hands. Lin is a sweetheart, of course, always available to talk with his fellow former Eagle, at least when he's not napping; even Lorenz surprises her, the foolish fop ready and eager to help at a moment's notice, an echo of the greater man inside him that he will become, one day.

And Ashe, sweet, noble Ashe, never forgets that of the hands that held up Lonato's body, one pair belonged to the songstress. There is no task she seeks to perform that he will not at least offer his aid with, and he has never once turned down her requests for help.

( When he marries Ingrid, it is Dorothea who will give him the speech about not hurting her, a speech he accepts with great grace. He is the only man Dorothea has ever met- save perhaps her own gentle Lin- who she will find worthy of the great lady knight.)

And... there is one event she goes back to, over and over again; one time she froze, one evening she just... went away inside, some horror she'd seen in war stuck in her soul and playing over and over again in her head, the world's worst opera on an unlimited run. It had been late evening, heading towards bed, she had been outside her room heading to bed when she was just... taken.

When she awoke, she was safe in bed.

She will never know who it was that carried her home, but she likes it like that; it makes it feel like... like it could have been anyone, that any member of this House that she is growing so attached to could have taken care with her. That these people she is so devoted to, any of them, could have put her in bed safe and sound- they had even locked her door behind them, leaving her keys on the nightstand (which also explained how they'd gotten in the locked door; the distracted are easy to pickpocket.)

She takes care of them, and they take care of her.

( When Ingrid is in her greatest danger- when the merchant comes who would take her away- and Dorothea cries for help, the whole House responds in the affirmative. They would answer anyway- Ingrid is one of them, too, after all- but Dorothea is their great mother hen; and when she calls for help, the Herd answers in force. Ingrid's would-be suitor never knew what hit him.)

-

So in time she finds she likes saying the words, she likes believing these beautiful lies; these big lies, these lies so big they might almost be true. All a play, all stage-acting, but she always was so good at acting, always got so lost in the role. What's one more little act of pretend?

And... it is comforting. She could do with some comfort in her life, after everything. Even knowing it's a farce; well, shit, she walked out on stage and played her role knowing it was fake, how is this any different?

Except here, she is not doing it at some director's motion, but by her own choice, choosing a role to play, forever. Maybe that was all growing up was; choosing a role, and sticking to it, come hell and high water. Maybe...

And thus this comes to pass: In a time of desperate battle against wild beasts, Dorothea opens her hand to help a friend on a battlefield with a prayer on her lips. The situation is beyond desperate; the beast is on Mercedes, it has torn her throat out, she is dying and Dorothea cannot save her. She will watch her friend die in front of her, and on instinct she turns to the prayers she has repeated in times of hurt for the last three months, even as she runs to her, helpless, even knowing that she is most likely simply consigning herself to the wolf's jaws too.

She holds out her hand, and prays aloud- _Goddess, help us, please!- _the shortest and most honest prayer in the world, her head full of images of Mercedes- who is so sweet, so loving, so kind. Who is more than this, who deserves more than to die to a wolf's teeth on some distant battlefield. Dorothea thinks of little sweet treats after bad days and Mercie's gentle words and her certainty that Mercie _will _be there tomorrow, she has _faith _that her friend will be there and be her friend.

Heartful prayer, born of the desperate human hope that not _everything _is cruel, that there is _something _good in the universe.

As her prayer echoes in everyone's ears, something flows out of her outstretched hand, something beautiful like a song made image, a glimmering light that leaves Dorothea, more surprised at its presence than anyone.

It wraps around Mercedes and stitches her ragged throat together with invisible needle and thread, and it saves her life.

-

She's so surprised she almost dies, the beast nearly had her as she stared stupid and gawking at her hand, from which life had flowed. Byleth saves her, the emotionless professor treating sword work as a mundanity, and favoring her only with a glance and the smallest raise of her eyebrow as she separates lupine head from lupine shoulders; but from Byleth, that is the equivalent of open-mouthed astonishment. Dorothea is good at reading people, and while Byleth is a book written in fine print and read by monotone, she still has her expressions.

Mercedes is not so hard to read; she is stunned and alive and joyous, she hugs her and thanks her for saving her life, tells her she never knew she could heal.

Dorothea hadn't either. She sat in her room alone that night, staring at her hands, heart full of... of too many things, head just as crowded. A single thought kicked the mob back loud enough to be heard:

_I have faith enough for this?_

She... she was just a face and a voice, neither things she really earned but had the good luck to be born with, that will be taken from her by time just as they were given to her by accident. Gifts, and useful ones, but poisonous, too; they come with a time limit, and they have terrible drawbacks. A pretty girl without protection learns things those without beauty never do, things learned on streets and in back alleys that Dorothea does not talk about, things that prepared her for combat better than any of her fellow students can imagine save, perhaps, Ashe, who shares his stray cat nature with her.

(Her first kill was at the age of ten; a man, seeing a pretty young girl on the street, and like too many men, deciding he had a right to her. She hadn't been able to get away, but she _did _have a dagger she'd stolen in her boot... the blood had blossomed on his white clothes like a flower. She'd never forgotten it, or the way it looked like the roses she saw in noble gardens, or the terror and horror of what almost happened to her. This rose has thorns, and nobody has ever figured out why Dorothea says that so often, or why she always keeps a knife in her belt.)

But this... This is the first thing she has ever had that was hers alone, and she has _stumbled_ into it, impossibly, Dorothea the unlucky orphan girl has tripped into something new. Others choose or discover them but she is the first person in history to just... _fall _onto some secret talent inside.

She calls it forth, unsteady, praying, staring at the hand that had saved Mercie's life.

“ Oh unexpected lady, who arrived to a mankind needing salvation, find me and protect me...”

Her mind conjured up images of Byleth, a lady most unexpected, who had come to Dorothea when she needed salvation, had found her and protected her- protected her most recently, in fact, from the very wolf she'd rescued Mercie from...

Light. There one moment and gone the next... but she can call it back up, her hand palms a gentle, shimmering globe of hollow light.

Dorothea stares at it, stunned. Some sarcastic part of her mind comments that, if the Goddess is real, she must be laughing at this, at little Dorothea staring shocked and confused at holy light.

When she releases it, she realizes she has _no idea _how to deal with this, this... change, not when she has been so afraid of change for so long, not when every change she can imagine makes her life worse. Change has been age, change has been a ruined voice, change has been... has been monstrous.

But now here comes change, bearing good things on a silver platter, and Dorothea, who for all her free spirit clings to stasis and order, does not know how to... how to embrace that, how to grip tight this chaos in the House of the Golden Deer, that now comes upon her.

She makes a single prayer to the Goddess- the only prayer of her life that is actually directed at the nebulous entity that may or may not watch over Fodlan- in hopes of answer.

_What do I do now?_

( Somewhere, Byleth and Sothis, asleep, dream of an answer, know that Dorothea needs someone to talk to, hear a plea whispered by a voice as big as the sky, that echoes with the dreams of thunderbolts... and their joint minds turn to a timid Beast, friendly rival to the stormsong.)

Dorothea receives no answer that night, and goes to sleep, fitful, tossing, turning... but in the morning, Byleth goes to her, and asks if she needs to talk.

_Maybe the Goddess does answer prayers_, Dorothea thinks sarcastically.

( Sothis, inside Byleth, feels a bit offended, and can't figure out why.)

“ I... yes,” Dorothea said. “ I... this light...”

Byleth nods, then frowns; her own studies in light are just beginning, tutelage under Rhea, who seems... _excited_ to teach her, who watches her with an intensity Byleth finds simultaneously flattering and deeply disturbing.

( The loneliness in Rhea is a void, and like all empty places, seeks desperately to be filled; Rhea wanted things from Byleth even Rhea didn't fully understand, things she had denied to herself for so long that the pain of them just became background noise. When things wind down- when Rhea gives her life to save them- Byleth will stay with Rhea until she dies. It will be the closest thing to comfort Rhea has had in a thousand years; perhaps undeserved, given the terrible things Rhea had done to the continent... but Byleth would have saved Edelgard, if she could have, and it gives Rhea a sense of peace before the old dragon passes away at last.)

“ Speak... with Marianne,” Byleth says, after a moment. “ She... she can help you more than I can, at the moment.”

Following that advice, Dorothea set off to find her rival, her stomach still twisted in knots.

-

She finds her tending the horses, of course, though with a special guest- Raphael. Raphael Kiersten, big Raph, who Dorothea rather likes; she understand the big man very well, they are kin. Her life has been dominated by her physical characteristics, too, after all; they are gender-flipped versions of each other. Just as her beauty and voice have always been the only things about her that have ever mattered, so it is with Raphael; his size and strength are the only things people will ever notice about him.

Still, much like her, Raphael was more than that, and she delighted in seeing it. The only thing bigger than Raphael was his kindness; of all the man's many muscles, his heart was the strongest, and it showed. He had a choice, when he began to grow, to either be a small person inside a big body, or to be big everywhere, big inside and outside too- and she'd had a similar choice, to either hide her voice and good looks, or to use them openly, to disguise herself or dare to shine.

It is to their credit that they chose what they did, Dorothea thinks, and a comforting reminder that others faced similar decisions. They'd both had a choice, when they began to grow into themselves, and she liked to think they'd both made the right one.

For these reasons, it does not surprise Dorothea, as it surprises so many, to see the big man quietly brushing a horse's mane, removing knots and stickerbrush so carefully that the horse does not even flick an ear at his intrusion. It does not surprise her that Marianne, who is spooked and scared of a mouse, who can be hurt by even the tiniest interaction with another person, is now in the presence of the loudest and biggest of the students without fear.

Marianne can even kind of talk to him, through the facade of speaking with the horses, whereas she might find herself silent in the presence of another, Raphael's replies low rumbles as he addresses Dorte in answering Marianne.

No, Dorothea knows how big Raph's heart is, and so she knows that he has deliberately learned to be considerate of others- and with sweet Marie, that means the big man is quiet and silent, gentle and soft. In a fit of that perverse irony that so plagues the Golden Deer, this comes to be true: the titan amongst them is the only one that can go near their timid, traumatized healer without hurting her. In the giant's rough, grating presence, the delicate maiden is at peace.

( In Marianne's own mind, she thinks of it as the Beauty calming the Beast; in the face of Raphael's sweet soul, she is not so afraid she will harm others, she is not so scared. His strength is such that he can stop her; his sweetness such that she feels the pulse of her blood diminish near him.)

“ Umm, Marie? I... I need to talk to you,” Dorothea says, quiet, not wanting to break the peace and calm of the stables.

Marianne turns to her, and she bristles. Okay. That disease called irony is catching; Dorothea is now the other person who can approach Marianne without fear of causing the shrinking violet harm, because Marianne wants to fight her. Where friends cannot be, a very specific tone of enemy can.

( In her own head, Marianne was annoyed at having her time with Raphael and Dorte both interrupted by _Dorothea_, who is the closest thing to a rival the poor girl has- not in affections, but in faith. Dorothea's plan worked well; Marianne was vaguely aware that Dorothea liked her, was a friend, but the bluenette was mostly too annoyed at her to notice, and it gives the suicidal girl something to focus on other than her pain. Even in her irritations, Dorothea sought what was best for others.)

“ What do you want?” Marianne asks, glowering her best.

Dorothea surprises both of them by breaking down crying.

-

Marianne, flustered, removed her, after Raphael said quietly that he'll tend the horses. The adopted girl leads the songstress away, hands soft and welcoming as she led her to a quiet corner and sits her down.

_Marianne is so gentle, _Dorothea thought, through her sobbing. Perhaps that was why she and Raphael got along so well; that gentleness in the giant, reflected in her.

“ Why are you crying?” Marianne asked quietly, once Dorothea had settled down. She was bad at dealing with others, her empathy a thing as shattered as her soul, but she _knew_ pain, knew it intimately... and, underneath all of it, Marianne was a kind person. For all her fear that she was a Beast, she had a Beauty's gentleness to her.

So she kept her hand on Dorothea's, as the other girl squeezed it tight.

“ I don't know,” Dorothea replied, voice hitching. “ I just... I healed Mercedes.”

“ I know,” Marianne said, because she had been there, had been throwing frost at a different monster when Dorothea's desperate prayer had echoed over the battlefield and drawn every eye.

Of course, even if she hadn't been there, she'd have known; the Deer were all talking about it, spreading it around the school today. Marianne wouldn't be surprised if the Archbishop knew. Nobody could stop talking about it, and rumor said Mercedes had taken over the kitchen earlier this morning, planning to make something special for Dorothea.

“ I... I'm scared, I guess,” the songstress said, looking lost. “ Stuff like this- it doesn't _happen _to me, Marie, I just... I don't actually believe.”

“ I know that, too,” Marianne confirmed. “ You couldn't make the ridiculous arguments you do if you did.”

Despite her words, she squeezed Dorothea's hand back. Irritation that she was, Marianne recognized Dorothea as a friend.

“ But now this light, and I... I don't know,” Dorothea said. “ It scares me. The future... I will always lose my beauty and my voice, and they're all I have... I'm afraid.”

Marianne looked at her, cocked her head at this most orderly one, who had come to the House of Chaos, and now feared it, feared the crown of antlers she had asked for.

Marianne was not usually perceptive with others, too frightened of them and herself both, too worried... but she was not scared of Dorothea. She was one of the few people she wasn't scared of, scared of hurting or scared of being hurt by, alongside a few others, like Raphael... though that was for... other reasons.

But with Dorothea, it boiled down to being too mad at her to be scared... and now, seeing her cry, being too concerned. She was not scared, and so she saw... more. Saw the fear in Dorothea, fear of change... Change will destroy Dorothea, and what a terrible fear that must be, how awful, to be afraid of chaos. What was it Claude had once said? The only constant is change... to be afraid of it... it would be a life worse than Marianne's, to be afraid of something so universal.

Marianne cannot really imagine such a fear. For all her timidity, Marianne aligned herself philosophically with chaos and upheaval, for they are the only forces that might grant her deepest wish, her wish to _change. _Marianne, after all, had only ever wanted things to be different; who could be scared of what _might _be, when what _is _seems so terrible?

( Perhaps the bluenette has her first inklings of how she herself will react in this moment; Dorothea fears the crown of antlers because it is change, but Marianne, when the mantle of gold falls on her shoulders, will find that it frees her from all her fears, and saves her life.)

But Dorothea was not like Marianne... Dorothea was scared of change, frightened by it, feared it the way only a woman who had ever been valued by others for her youth and looks alone could fear it. Change will destroy Dorothea, and so she found herself on the side of order and stasis by default. Marianne could... could see that, even if she was not precisely in that situation herself.

Still... this was good change, if Marianne could only help her see it...

She thought a moment, before hitting on an argument that might win this strangest of debates with her rival, a debate over... faith, Marianne must admit to herself. Faith not in the Goddess, but faith in the random, in the fundamental force that made wind blow and rivers flow, that carved soil out of rock and made stars dance in the sky.

“ Dorothea... I... I'm sorry if this is overstepping my boundaries, but... I thought you were afraid of the future, because you had nothing b-but your looks and voice... and they'd be taken. Right?”

Dorothea nodded. “ I've always been... pretty open about that.”

Marianne nodded. “ But now... Dorothea, you've been blessed. You don't have to be afraid of tomorrow anymore... You, of all people... the Goddess works in mysterious ways...”

Marianne sighed, and Dorothea looked at her, surprised.

“ I... what?” Dorothea asked, the usually perceptive woman thrown off by this revelation.

“ There is always a place for a healer,” Marianne said, and understanding blossomed in Dorothea's skull like a flower.

“ I... oh. _Oh_.”

Dorothea looked at Marianne like she was a prophet, like she had changed her world, she _smiled, _and for just that second, Marianne felt at peace with the world.

-

_There is always a place for a healer._

Dorothea throws herself into her studies with an almost maniacal focus; the woman who once feared her crown now eagerly grasps this wondrous shift in her life. She wakes up, devours breakfast, and then devours books with equal glee, studying healing, only leaving the library to go to class or to stumble home late at night. It's like being drunk, but there's no hangover; she can do this again and again. She is giddy with revelation, she is almost sick to her stomach with joy; a blessing. A blessing...

She doesn't have to be afraid of the future. The burden that has been taken off of her is so big she almost can't figure out what to do with herself, she's afraid she'll float off into the air without that burden weighing her down. She doesn't have to be afraid of the future. Has there ever been a gift like this? She is gleefully mad, for a time, singing without realizing it, cycling from her repertoire in the Mittelfrank days to newly learned gospel hymns and back.

The whole world is different these days, without that fear on her back; she stands up straighter, finds it easier to walk. She finds her former beliefs a bit silly; how could she have been so afraid of _this_? Is her faith not in the Golden Deer, in her friends and professor? This dysjunction runs in their veins like blood; of course it will be kind to her, of course chaos will take care of her, the way all her friends do.

And she will use it to take care of them, too. She can heal, she no longer has to kill; she can put wounds back, she can fix her friends, she can focus not on putting the guts back into the living instead of pulling them out. This... this might save her, save her from a future where she is crippled by the pain in her skull, if she can lighten the burden of the dead with memories of those whose lives she has saved.

It opens up all the world, this magic. The future is hers. _There is always a place for a healer._ Sweet Marie is right; there is always work for those who can heal. She could sign up with the Church, she could be a noble's salaried doctor, she could travel as a mercenary, she could... she could do anything. Studying medicine- at Manuela's hand, her old teacher glad to help her out- means she can supplement her magic with learning, increasing her potential, a potential she had not even had a week ago. She studies with Lin, growing closer to him as the days wear on, both excited to heal instead of harm, sharing this hope, that they might yet live without blood on their hands.

( More death must they inflict, but it eases the both of them that they are healers first, that in the rage of war, they are able to find room for kindness. It saves them both a few sleepless nights, trembling in horror.)

The bounty of her new power is already rolling in; Mercie had, in fact, been making her something special the day she took over the kitchen. Dorothea had received a big box of handmade sweets from the gentle woman, a thank-you to the opera starlet that had everyone who heard about it salivating. Even Edie had looked mournfully at that box of treats.

( Dorothea will remember that, when she stands over Edelgard's corpse in Enbarr, before Lin burns it to keep the Agarthans from utilizing it. She will remember the girl who, in the end, was not wise enough, who in another life, she prays, is allowed to simply eat sweets, and be at peace.)

There are people who can cook, and then there are people like Mercie, and Dorothea could have sold that box of candy for a king's ransom and felt like she'd gotten the worse end of the deal.

Instead, she ate most of it, saving for two that she saved for little Lysie, which made the foul-mouthed dark mage swear undying loyalty to her, bringing a delighted laugh to all who heard it.

Dorothea had done it as an act of grace, feeling it was... appropriate. An act of grace had given her the future, after all... she felt almost light-headed, these days. Everything seems so... bright.

The world is a locked door, but there is a key in her, a key made of a prayer on her lips and light in her hands, and she finds as she opens the door that the world spreads far and wide before her.

She will never go hungry again. The nightmare that plagues her can never come to pass. New nightmares may filter into her skull, but this one, at least, she can slay- she will never go hungry again.

_There is always a place for a healer._

-

She realizes she might be going too hard when little Lysie, of all people, quietly asks her if she'd like to take a break, two weeks into her new regimen. The girl makes a joke of it, claims that her newly sworn undying loyalty means she must try to take care of her, but honestly, given how impossibly driven the dark mage is, if _she _thinks Dorothea needs to slow down... then she does, period. Lysie never met a break she didn't hate, so Dorothea must be going at a tremendous pace, for Lysie to speak to her like this.

She can afford to slow down, after all. If time is no longer her enemy- or at least, if it is now her enemy only in the sense that everyone has Time for an enemy, not in the more personal sense it once held- then... then she has time to... enjoy herself.

So slow down she does, spending one of Lysie's Hilda-mandated breaks with her, eating a bit of Mercie's bounty- and that is a sign of Lysie's respect, that she shares some of her Claude-given gifts with her. Dorothea smiles, and she takes it easy, relents a bit in her labors.

But she does not give them up.

She keeps up the arguments with sweet Marie, but now on the finer points of the healing arts. Still trivia, still meaningless, still a breath of fresh air in both their lives. She thinks Marie finally gets it when she sees an almost eager look in her eyes during their fights, and she _knows _that she understands when the bluenette dares to start one fight herself.

And when it comes time for choir, Dorothea's voice is the loudest and most beautiful in the room, that it might yet reach the ears of whatever being blessed her, and please them... and if there is no one to reach, then her voice may at least please her fellow classmates, in whom Dorothea has found her faith.

( A tear crawls down Byleth's eye when she hears it the first time, a tear that _she _did not cry. Sothis still does not quite know what she is, but she feels that warm hope, that bright summer lightning, and it brings the ghost something like peace.)

-

The Tomb happens, soon after that.

Dorothea never talks about it. Leave the past behind.

( Leave the cold behind, the... disassociation... the emptiness, how Dorothea must put away Dorothea in order to fight. Healing her friends, fighting her enemies- it is only her faith in her friends that lets her go as far as she does, it is only because she loves them that the light flows through her and keeps them safe. They trust her to keep them safe, and so the faith goes both ways; they have faith in each other, and it is enough.)

Much like Linhardt, she will not speak of the war in the dark, but instead focus on tomorrow; focus on the bonds with her friends, on this crown of antlers they all hold in common, that she holds in her common hands.

( Perhaps this is the most beautiful part of Claude's dream; that it is not for the benefit of the rich, and the powerful, but the benefit of all, even the poor and the small. In time, Dorothea will become Claude's most fervent supporter; she will become something like a preacher, this faithful one, she will write operas and plays that spread the gold and brown of Claude's great dream across all Fodlan. She will take the great skill of her beauty and voice, and the greater skill of her brilliant mind, and she will make Claude's dream a dream all Fodlan shares, from the high to the low, and no one will ever know how much of the success of Claude's goals is owed to the fact that he placed a crown of antlers on Dorothea's head.)

( She will marry gentle Linhardt in time, for between the two of them, who are haunted terribly by the war, they understand each others' suffering; they gentle each other's fears and nightmares, they calm each other down. They will look towards tomorrow, as Linhardt changes the world of medicine, eventually going to teach at Ferdinand's University of Brigid; Dorothea will follow in time, to spread Claude's dreams to a new land. Time will take from her good looks and a fine singing voice, but she will write plays and operas until the day she dies, become known as the Mother of Literature, her world's very own Shakespeare, whose plays will live on long after her bones are dust. A copy of her most famous play- based on Ashe and Ingrid's book- will be one of the things aboard the shuttle that will reach the Moon.)


	8. Mercedes and Byleth: To Choose the Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This one's a long one.
> 
> This is Mercedes' chapter, but as I wrote it, it became Byleth's too- there's just one more chapter left.
> 
> You'll see what it is when it gets here.

**Mercedes von Maritz and Byleth Eisner**

**To Choose a Crown**

The Blue Lions are riddled with sin, but Mercedes is the only person to ever figure it out.

Not that anybody asks her. Not that she tells anyone.

( It is so easy, to do nothing. It is so easy... easy as leaving a little brother behind.)

But even as she joins this House- her adoptive father's attempt to make her more attractive to her suitors (to her buyers, if she is being honest, she is sold like cattle to buy influence and respect)- she finds the central sins of each easily enough. She is a religious woman, after all, and she enjoys the stranger strains of theology, the ones that might even predate the Church of Seiros entirely... and the Blue Lions fit in so nicely, with old theories of the sins of humanity.

Dimitri is Wrath, easy enough; Mercedes can sense it, the terrible thing under his skin. She pities him, to the extent that Mercedes exerts herself to think about others... she is... afraid, to care, when she first comes to Garreg Mach. She is afraid of making choices, decisions, given how horrific the consequences of decisions in her life have been, how often she has lost the people she cares for.

( Annette is clumsy with her hands; Mercedes is clumsy with her loved ones, they slip through her fingers like bloody sand. Her father, before her birth, than her brother and her name and all Adrestia in one go, and who is she now, Adrestian ex-patriate in the Kingdom of Faerghus? What is left of her, who has lost so much?)

But her heart is so tender and loving she cannot help but care, and it hurts, to see the way Dimitri is so... careful. As if he is just quiet enough, if he is just cautious enough, the monster of rage that stalks him will simply leave; as if the past ever left anybody, as if all their histories were not monsters, just waiting in the wings.

( Her little brother. Her great failure, her terrible mistake. It is an awful thing, to abandon family... her monster waits behind her, too, she gets why Dimitri is so afraid of the monster stalking him.)

It will get him, someday, that monster he fears; she merely prays that when that day comes, she is far away, from the disaster it will make of him.

( She is not. When that day comes, when the monster takes him, she is there, at Gronder Field, where the Kingdom was born, and where the Kingdom will die. It will be the second country Mercedes has lost; she lost Adrestia to desperate flight from a cruel man, and she loses Faerghus when Dimitri is consumed by his monster, and tries to kill Edelgard in one last desperate rush, no echo of the cautious, careful boy who had once lived in the ravening beast he will die as.)

Sylvain is easy to identify- as easy as he himself is, Mercedes thinks to herself, tickled by the pun.

Despite that, his sin is not Lust, as so many would say; Lust is about wanting things you cannot have, and Sylvain gets what he wants, he always does, no matter who he hurts. No, it is Gluttony that drives Sylvain; the enjoyment he seeks, the endless love of pleasure, the love of delights, taken to such a point that he does not care how much harm must be inflicted, so long as he has his own joys. Sylvain is a man whom life has been cruel to, and so he, in turn, seeks to become even more cruel; he throws away all concern or care, because life has never had concern or care for him.

( Mercedes, at least, has this much going for her; be all her sins remembered, she has not let her tragedies render her less than kind. Sylvain's spine was a weeping willow, bending in the wind... but for all her fear of making a decision, Mercedes's spine was made of finest steel, an unstrung bow that could launch her to glory, if she would but use it.)

Sylvain makes a pass at her, and she shuts him down; that is the end of it, for Sylvain, who moves on to easier conquests. Mercedes patches up one or two of them, broken-hearted girls who did not realize that Sylvain viewed them as something like expendable arrows in a quiver, fired once and then forgotten; she had, by dumb luck, been in the area when they break down into tears, and so she comforted them as best she could, caring instincts not quite swallowed by her sorrow.

They are the lucky ones; some try to kill themselves. In the face of this, Sylvain proves his devotion to himself, brushing it off, claiming that they are merely trying to trick him or trap him; a not unrealistic fear, but Mercedes sees the heart of it, that even if the attempts are real, as some are, Sylvain cannot quite bring himself to care. The world does not care about Sylvain, so he armors himself in contempt, and focuses on his own enjoyment.

It is part of what propels the true Lust among the Lions- Felix. Felix, who wants so many things he cannot have that it is driving him mad. He wants his brother to be alive; he wants to kick his father in the teeth. He wants to stop being so angry at his father. He wants his father to understand his anger; he wants Dimitri to be better than he is. He wants all the delusions of knighthood to shatter in Faerghus' grip; he wants to be the greatest warrior who ever lived, so he does not have to fear dying like Glenn did. He wants Sylvain to love him the way Felix loves him; he wants the world to be the kind of place where his love for Sylvain would not be a quiet thing, hidden and secret.

Felix _wants_, that's nearly all there is to him, Felix _wants_, and the world will give him none of the things he wants; so he trains and practices, the one dream he has that he might actually achieve, sharpening his sword and his tongue and his soul all three until they are nothing but razors, and he cuts everyone who speaks with him. He even turns it on her, though in his defense, she had been unaware of the situation with Glenn before she had compared him to her long-lost little brother, and she had not meant to strike at such a sore point.

( He will never apologize to her. It is anathema to him. He cannot conceive of apology; he hurts so _much _that it eases his pain to inflict it on others.)

Ingrid is Envy; and how can she not be? She wants to be a Knight of Faerghus, she wants to have military honors and glories. She wants to be hailed as something more than a womb out of which Crest-bearing nobles might be born. Normally that would mark her as Lust, but Ingrid's resignation towards her own goals keeps her from being as driven or determined as Felix; no, what pushes her sin towards green eyes is the way she regards the others.

Sylvain, Felix and Dimitri do not know why she rides herd on them so hard, why she seems so determined to control them, but Mercedes has older and wiser eyes; she sees the way Ingrid looks at them, these sons of Faerghus, who are gifted its knighthood without question or complaint, and she sees how much she _hates _them, try as she might to deny it, how much Ingrid _wants _what they so casually disregard. A thing they were given for free, that Ingrid cannot purchase with a mountain of gold; how could Ingrid, who wishes only to be a knight, feel anything but envy?

It is to Ingrid's credit that she has not totally fallen into her sin, she is not as lost to it as her fellows in the noble quartet; but it aches on her, it crawls on her skin, and every glance she sends the others is torn between fondness for once-close friends, and a terrible, seething jealousy, that might consume her utterly.

( When Ingrid reveals a preference for green, Mercedes will not be surprised.)

Of the remainder, their sins are not so dominant, are even positive attributes, sometimes. Take sweet Annette as an example; Annette is Lust, like Felix, but she is a kindly version. She wants things she might yet have, and so her wants do not destroy her. Her sweet Annette is Lust, through and through; she wants her father back, she wants to be the best mage at the Academy, she wants to be a great axe-woman and a brilliant scholar and to stop tripping over barrels. She wants, but she limits her wants to things she can have, and so she is not as hurt by them as the swordsman is.

Ashe is Greed, but in the practical sense; he likes security, and he likes having a few coins to his name, but his fervor does not consume him. His love of gold comes out in his incredible skill at haggling, in his making sure that he has supplies on him at all times, in his ability to appraise an item's worth in a glance. Greed, but not taken too far.

As for the last of them, their lone man of Duscur... Dedue is kin of hers, and Mercedes likes him quite a bit. She admires the strong, stoic man of Duscur, his skill in the kitchen, his kind and gentle heart. Of all the Lions, his life is the greatest tragedy; the others, at least, were born to great noble houses; but Dedue's people are dead as dust, and his life has been one headlong plunge into nightmare.

( Of her former House, it is Dedue that Mercedes has the most nightmares about in later years, waking up weeping for sorrow at the horror that was that good man's life. The Lions deserved better- but of all those who deserved better it was Dedue, most of all, who should have had a happy ending, who did not deserve to be struck down by Edelgard, her last victim.)

His sin is the same sin Mercedes bears, they both suffer under its weight. Perhaps that is why she likes him so well.

And what is that sin, kept inside Mercedes herself? Why, she has the deadliest sin of all, the most insidious, the most self-destructive.

Sloth.

( Just go along with the flow, Mercedes. Do nothing to affect the world around you. Don't act, merely react, floating along. Call it the will of the Goddess, all so you don't have to make a choice... so that the consequences aren't your fault, the way leaving your brother is _all your_ _fault_...)

Sloth. Which is so much more, and so much worse, than just laziness, as modern terminology would take it; if that were the case, Linhardt would be that sin's premier proponent, with all others left in his lethargic dust, and it would not be so bad.

But it is... not just that. It is an... apathy, a sorrow, that saps one's will to move. That takes away one's strength to change, to grow, to act, to... to do anything, anything except... be. It is the peace of meditation turned into a poison, it is a living death that slips inside and makes one passive, weak.

Nobody has ever figured out why Mercedes is clumsy, sometimes. Nobody has realized just why she's so... forgetful, sometimes. Why she cannot work up the will to exercise or truly commit to anything except healing and magic, which come so easily for her.

Of course, nobody ever really bothers to _look _at her, either, so it's not so surprising that they haven't figured her out. Nobody really _sees _Mercedes, save perhaps Ashe... they see that she is kind and caring, that she is a healer, and they do not dig any further, they assume she is a motherly woman and leave it at that.

( It will not surprise Mercedes when Ashe, alone of all men, is able to see Ingrid as she really is, and win the envious lady knight's heart. The stray cat's instincts have given him piercing eyes; there is little the once-thief cannot see.)

No one has noticed that Mercedes simply can't bring herself to _care_ about the little things. A normal person- for whatever that means, whatever that is worth, in this strange place- does not forget her clothes when leaving her room. A normal person has more motivation, a normal person is more... _alive_, than she is.

But Mercedes? Mercedes is content to simply drift along, to be no more important than a leaf in the breeze, blaming the Goddess for her own fears and inactivity and sorrow. Even seeing her brother- and why does he call himself Jeritza, now?- does not provoke her; he does not make any move of recognition to her, and she does not, either. She simply... is.

And then she meets Byleth.

-

She'd like to say it was love at first sight, that fires and flowers burst into bloom around her when she met the woman who would be her wife; but in all honestly, Mercedes can barely remember her first meeting with the professor. It had been in broad daylight early on, as their little group finally came together, her and Ashe and Annette and Ingrid, pulling together in a sort of defensive way, against the greater abuses of the others.

Byleth was an imposing sight... but that was entirely despite herself. Her clothes were ridiculous; she would later find out that Byleth literally wore whatever she found, whatever took her fancy at any given moment, which explained why she so strongly resembled a rummage pile come shambling to life. Byleth had all the social grace of a horse on fire, and her complete inability to understand fashion was part of that.

( It would not be until Hilda, taking pity, explained it to her that Byleth would ever get even the smallest inkling of how she should dress; the Goneril axewoman will assist Byleth in dressing more appropriately, particularly in a fancy, combat-usable version of the standard professor's uniform that Byleth would adopt as her standard wear. It was Hilda who vetoed the bizarre robes Rhea gifted Byleth after her transformation, robes that fit with the attire Rhea's mother had once worn but matched nothing Byleth had ever owned; Rhea always suspected it was Hilda's doing, but never knew for sure.)

But despite the absurdity of her outfit, there was... something about her. The way Byleth stood, so quiet, so empty; it entranced one. There was something about her that drew the eye, a _weight _to her as she stood there, mighty as a statue.

( She was also _very _pretty, and quite curvy, too, just the way Mercedes liked them; Mercedes knew what she liked in a woman, and had no shame in admitting it.)

She turned her head to Mercedes as she walked up with Annette at her side, Ingrid taking the opportunity to leave the conversation.

“ Oh, greetings, professor,” Mercedes had said, with what passed for interest in her apathetic soul. The talk about the school had all been about Byleth, this deadly mercenary who had saved the Adrestian princess, and the heirs of all Fodlan besides.

( Later, Mercedes will wonder if Byleth ever regretted saving Edelgard in the forest, and she will ask her wife the question. The answer will be no. Byleth will only ever regret that she could not save Edelgard again, save her from herself; but even Goddesses have their limits. You cannot save a person; you can only give them a chance to save themselves.)

The professor had looked at them, and something like a blush had bloomed on her cheeks, the tiniest, palest drop of pink on her smooth cheeks.

“ M-Mercedes,” Byleth said, stuttering over her name, “ and Annette. How are you today?”

“ We're fine, Professor!” Mercedes said. She did not know the Professor very well, not at that time, so she almost missed that slight misting of red across her face, and definitely missed the implications, that this stoic woman would have such an obvious reaction to her presence.

( Later, when she saw how generally quiet Byelth was, she would realize that even such a small blush was a tremendous thing to see.)

“ That's good to hear. W-well, I need to get going,” the professor had said, and departed at a rush, long legs carrying her away.

Mercedes had shrugged at the professor's sudden departure, but everyone had said the new professor was weird, so she thought no more of it.

-

Her second meeting was at night, the professor and Mercedes bumping into each other by accident. She'd gotten to know more of the professor at that point, to know that her strangeness was treated as a great blessing by her students, who have grown terribly fond of their teacher. It is early, yet, it is still before the Tomb and all the glories within... but even now, Claude and the Golden Deer realize something is different, _special_, about the Professor.

But Mercedes knows nothing of this when she bumps into her, and so they discuss casual things. Mercedes jokes of her forgetfulness, and even now Mercedes is not sure if she was asking for help or simply commenting on her nature; but the conversation takes a strange turn when Byleth steels herself, the professor pauses and takes a deep breath.

Then she turned to her with those big, expressionless eyes, and in their depths, Mercedes would swear before the Goddess Herself that she saw all eternity in those eyes.

“ You need to speak with your brother,” Byleth said. “ It- it'll be too late, soon.”

Mercedes had stumbled back from that, and Byleth had _fled_, she had ran from that meeting like all the hounds of hell were after their misplaced Ashen Demon and only her room provided hope of heaven's protection. Mercedes, meanwhile, had just stared, shocked and horrified at Byleth's words, wondering how she had known...

-

She talks to her brother. She almost doesn't, that's how heavy her sorrow weighs on her; even with the nightmarish prophecy Byleth had dropped on her, in the dead of night, Mercedes almost can't do it.

But, finally, Mercedes works up the courage to, for the first time in her life, make a decision, no matter how scared she is of consequence.

Se approaches Jeritza at the training ground. She doesn't know what she's going to say until she opens her mouth.

“ Emile?”

His eyes are sad as he turns to her.

“ No,” he answers, and though Mercedes is the elder sibling, his voice is far older in that moment.

-

“ What should I say to him?” Mercedes asks the professor. Getting time with Byleth is hard; she has begun to recruit, calling green-haired Linhardt first, and she is busy all the time, it seems, always running about the monastery on some errand or another.

Still, by dint of persistence, Mercedes overcame the barrier of Hilda, who appears to have become Byleth's secretary entirely despite herself, and got a meeting with the professor.

“ I... I am not sure,” Byleth said, shaking her head, not looking at Mercedes- seemed almost frightened to look at her.

“ You knew he was here,” the holy woman asked- accused, if she was being honest, Byleth had struck at the pain deep inside her and put a fire where there had been only a drowning woman before. “ You knew, and you said I... I had little time. Help me.”

“ I don't know if I can,” Byleth said, and her voice was tinged with... despair. “ I can only- I only see so much.”

“ See?” Mercedes asked, and Byleth's face blushed again, still that lightest sprinkling of pink, before she covered her face with her hands.

“ Archery,” Byleth blurted out between her fingers. “ Practice archery. You're a natural at it. Training grounds. He'll have to spend time with you. Maybe. I'm guessing but... but it's something.”

Mercedes stared at the strange woman, but nothing more was forthcoming... and she left, with one last glance back at this strangest of prophets.

-

Byleth was wrong.

Mercedes was a _shit _archer. Her distaste for exercise was a punishing deficit; archery took muscles, and Mercedes was as muscular as a slug. A lazy slug. A lazy slug with flabby arms and a love of sweets, who preferred magic.

Nearly dead after about fifteen minutes of practice, Mercedes sighed, and said, quietly, “ Fuck Byleth.”

Jeritza, nearby- who had been actively avoiding her, and not even being subtle about it- heard that curse on her lips... and he _laughed_, her head whipped around at the sound, all these years and still he had that bright, ringing laugh, it came out of the depths of her childhood to greet her again on an adult's lips.

He laughed, loud and long, and Mercedes' eyes pricked with tears at the sound of her little brother's joy, at a sound she had never thought to hear again.

“ I... I never thought I'd hear you say something so coarse,” Jeritza admitted, and just for a second, it was _Emile _right there, smiling at her from under that mask.

“ I never thought I'd hear you laugh again,” Mercedes said, and while his amusement died, it was a gentle death, and some of it lingered in his eyes. He strode over to her, and shook his head slowly.

“ If you're going to be here,” he said, “ I should teach you how to wield a bow properly.”

He walked her through the steps, and though they did not speak of any of the things they should, of all that was between them, they _did _talk, and it was still time with her little brother, more time than she'd had in her childhood, and Goddess, was there anything anyone wanted but more time with their loved ones?

_Thank you Byleth_, Mercedes thought, and that night, prayed for the strange professor, prayed that she receive all kindnesses, for her kindness to Mercedes.

( That night, Byleth and Sothis taste something sweet on their lips, right before bed, sweet as innocent kisses and candied treats, though it is gone as soon as they notice it.)

-

She made a mixed bag of treats that week, and brought it to the professor. Hilda had waved her in for the bribe of a single piece for herself, a cost Mercedes had anticipated; she'd given her three, to the pinkette's delight.

“ I... what?” Byleth said, staring at the cutely wrapped little box.

“ I talked to him,” Mercedes told her. “ My- my brother.”

“ Oh,” Byleth said. “ But then- why this?”

“ A gift,” Mercedes said, giggling at Byleth's confusion, notable only in a widening of her eyes. “ For you. Wasn't sure what you'd like so I made a mix!”

“...Oh.”

Byleth blushed again, and now, at the third time, Mercedes saw it, and finally _got_ it, got just _why _Byleth was blushing. It... it was unbearably cute, that this woman, treated as a stoic badass by all the school, seemed to be so horribly shy in her presence, overwhelmed by little old Mercedes.

( Mercedes shares this with Jeralt; he had fallen in love with Sitri because of how subtle her affections were, her little blushes and warmths; the greatest knight of Seiros had been enraptured not by some great act of romance but by a series of little things that settled deep into his heart, tinder that lit the day came that he brought her foreign flowers and her smile blazed forth like the sun. Mercedes walked that same path now, it had taken just this smallest of expressions to draw the holy woman's attentions to this strangest of professors.)

“ You're terribly cute,” Mercedes had said, cocking her head as she looked fondly at Byleth.

Byleth had swallowed, heavy and hard against those words, still not looking at Mercedes, her blush growing. Mercedes chose to take pity on her in that moment... and besides, it wasn't like her sloth didn't mean it felt... too active to try and pursue this woman. She was barely able to work up the will to go to the training ground every day, and that was to see her brother, presumed lost.

“ You were wrong, by the way,” Mercedes said, changing the subject. “ I'm terrible as an archer.”

“ You won't be,” Byleth said, so certain that even Mercedes had to believe her. “ Once you figure it out, and train up your muscles... you'll be legendary.”

Another person might have asked how Byleth knew all these things, would be more curious about all this prophecy; but sloth has this great advantage, it lets you roll with anything. Mercedes, who did not want to do anything, in her heart of hearts, who just passively accepted the world as it was, could not work up the will, and simply left.

But she kept going to the training grounds, and she kept practicing.

-

Byleth was right.

Mercedes was _incredible _at archery. Once she got her muscles to the point they could do the work- and _Goddess_ she hated it, she hated exercise in general and this was awful exercise, muscle exercise- she had a deadeye's aim, she was a sniper non-pareil. Even Jeritza was impressed, and told stories of his days at war, Mercedes not interrupting them as she just listened to her little brother talk of bloodshed with a relish that haunted her.

Still, it is not just bloodshed he speaks of. He tells her many things, not quite meaning to; Jeritza guides her through the work, doing his job as a professor, but it is Emile who speaks out of his mouth. He tells her of warfare; he tells her of Adrestia, and how her homeland has progressed in her absence. He makes jokes about Faerghus that she laughs at- she is an outsider to the icy Kingdom, and some of his observations match her own, though there is always an uglier edge to Emile's jokes.

( He never speaks of the Alliance, and Mercdes will later realize how telling that is; Edelgard had always regarded Leceister as a sideshow, had always believed the real fight was with her stepbrother in the Kingdom. Mercedes would always wonder how Edelgard had felt, towards the war's end, looking out at the army that would kill her, and finding that they flew not blue and white flags, but shining gold and good earthy brown.)

She mentions mother only once, and that she would like to talk to him, or at least, receive a letter; he goes silent for the rest of that day, and Mercedes fears he will retreat from her, but he does not, goes on talking the next day as though she'd said nothing at all.

( She will find out, a year later, that he sent one letter home, that he found his mother and sent her only this: _Your son is dead, but he loved you and he loved his sister, and he has never regretted staying behind to save you._ Mercedes and her mother will both cry over that letter, and all the terrible news Mercedes will bring her, about Emile and his true place in Edelgard's terrible war machine. And when they are done, Mercedes will take her mother with her when she leaves, heading east, done with her adoptive father at last; Mercedes will, with Claude's help, settle her mother down in Derdriu, their family changing colors one more time in a life full of turning coats- though this time, the alchemy will stick, the transformation will last. Mercedes turns her flag to gold, as it always should have been, and it will stay that color for all time.)

And, one day, Byleth will approach her of her own free will.

-

“ I... want you to join the Golden Deer,” Byleth said, so awkward you could cut it with a sword. Mercedes had just emerged from the training grounds, this was _quite _an improper time to talk, but there was at least one advantage to her general passivity; stuff like that didn't really bother her.

“ Why?” Mercedes asked, then with amusement, decided to tease. “ Because of your little crush? Oh my, salivating over a student? My my~”

Byleth stiffened, but did not blush, as Mercedes expected, but looked her full in the eye.

“ It's not about if you ever... if we ever... that doesn't matter,” she said in a rush. “ If you do not join me, you will die, Mercedes. Please.”

Mercedes took a single step back, staggered and surprised- but in Byleth's eyes, she saw... something.

(_Terrible plains of blood, and a crimson flower growing fat on corpses, and a word... Tailtean?... and herself, dead, alongside a field of Kingdom knights, the last flag of Faerghus draped on her corpse_)

Mercedes jerked back.

“ W-what...?”

Byleth's eyes shined with unshed tears, no more nightmares in their depths- just Byleth's own fear.

“ I don't know why I know these things, I'll explain everything I can to you, but _please_,” Byleth begged.

Mercedes paused, hand tightening unconsciously on her bow... but Byleth has been right twice now. Three times the charm, as someone had said...

“ Okay,” Mercedes said. “ But you have to tell me _everything_.”

“ I will,” Byleth said. “ Tonight, I'll come to your room- we'll talk.”

-

They meet that night- not in Mercedes' room, though that's where Byleth picks her up, or in Byleth's office, but in the Golden Deer classroom, Byleth bumming the key off a janitor.

Appropriate, perhaps, to meet in a classroom; Mercedes did come here to _learn_ kist what the hell was going on, after all.

“ Explain,” Mercedes said, to the professor- but she felt bad for her harshness, when she saw how _frazzled _the professor looked, how haggard.

“ I don't... see the future, precisely,” Byleth said, and her monotone somehow still managed to sound _haunted_, her voice belonging to every protagonist from Mercedes' beloved ghost stories. “ I... everything I am going to say is going to sound... like I'm losing my mind, but I'm _not_, Mercedes. That's the horror of it. I'm right about... everything. Even with parts of me gone, pieces scattered in the river of time, in different streams... part of me flies with eagles and part of me dances with dragons and another part hunts with lions, but this is all of me, and I have to choose, I _had _to choose just _one_. Some of me can go anywhere but _all _of me has to go _somewhere_. I had to _decide_. I couldn't even walk away; if you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice...”

Mercedes trembled before that idea, of choosing; was that not what her sloth was, just a way to avoid having to choose? When her decisions kept biting her back, it had seemed the best road, to choose not to decide...

( But some quiet, powerful voice, that sounded a little like Emile's, said _But choosing to act brought me back into your life... is that so bad? To take all that burden on your back, if it will bring good as well as bad?_)

“ And... now I choose... this. The right side, I think, the side that can lead not just me but all Fodlan to a better future... I think. I see a sun rising in the East that changes everything it touches to gold, there is a laughing man there who will save the world, if I can bring him safely to his throne, there... I... Goddess, I see so much and I see so _little, _I'm not even sure who that laughing man is. Goddess. I think it's Claude. But... what if it was Dimitri? Did I make a mistake? I... I could only pick one, so I chose the Deer. I chose chaos, because I thought it was the right thing to do. I'm... I'm sorry, if I'm wrong.”

She paused, took a deep breath, another.

“ Sorry, this... must all sound so... the visions aren't perfect. They're strange. Metaphor, but made real. Things said plainly warp as they cross the distance from my other selves, or.. .or whatever it is that is talking to me. I've got a ghost in my head, Mercedes, and I can go backwards in time, and I... I am... not doing well.”

She paused again, and Mercedes waited, but she said nothing, simply stood there in the empty classroom, her empty eyes haunted things.

“ What...” Mercedes began, then swallowed, her throat heavy and dry. This all sounded like gibbering foolishness. But she'd seen something in her eyes... “ What was in my future, if I do not join the Deer?”

“ Dead,” Byleth answered. “ Dead, on a plain somewhere, your body is draped-”

“ In the last flag of Faerghus,” Mercedes finished, and Byleth's eyes opened a little wider.

“ You... what?” Byleth said, and Mercedes shivered.

“ I saw it in your eyes,” she said, and she shivered again. Ghost stories were fun, but now she felt like she was living in one, but the ghost was a nightmare of the future. “ What is happening, in the future?”

“ Don't know why you'd see anything,” Byleth said, distracted. “ My eyes... Linhardt said something about it once... but I... Goddess. I'm sorry, I wouldn't wish this knowledge on anyone else, this... _burden_. I didn't know my eyes would show the things I've seen... but they can't be doing that all the time, the way I'm always seeing things, someone else would have noticed...”

“ It's alright,” Mercedes said to the worried, apologizing woman. “ I... I wouldn't have come, without it. But... what is happening, in the future? Why am I dead?'

“ I... I have my suspicions. War... I think war. Though maybe I'm just... interpreting it that way because I'm a mercenary. But... death. Definitely death. Death for so many, so it's either war or a plague. So, _so _many dead, Mercedes, and I see so much worse... I see a javelin strike the ground and all the earth is turned to ash in its light, I see walking metal that kills, I see a palace and a monster on the throne but I can't see _which _palace and _which _monster.”

She sighed, a quiet exhalation of air that almost didn't warrant the name, soft and small. “ The only thing I know for sure is that only those in the House of Gold will have even a _chance _to live, if they're tough enough to survive. I've seen it. They... they make it, no one else does... except one of the Lions? I think? I see a single lion, mane shaved by a sword, who wanders the world a long time, but he dies alone and in great pain... not much to be saved for.”

Mercedes shook her head. “ I... Goddess, preserve us. What... what are we going to do?”

“ Save them, if I can,” Byleth said. “ Get... everyone who will join. Everyone. I'll... I'll start with those most likely to come, those who are worst off... try to figure it out before it happens, maybe avert it, but at least bring people into the Deer, _save_ them.”

“ What... what did you see in my brother's future?” Mercedes could not help but ask, a selfish question in the face of these apocalyptic visions... but he _was _her brother.

“ Death,” Byleth answered, and Mercedes heart fell like a stone into her guts. “ Death, always death, I don't... I don't even know what kills him. I just see a reaper with a sickle, and then the darkness takes him. Sorry, I'm sorry.”

Mercedes shook her head. “ Is there any way to save him?'

“ No idea,” Byleth said. “ I don't... I don't see anything, just the reaper and the dark.”

Mercedes swayed on her feet.

“ I'll save him,” she swore.

“ I'll help, anyway I can,” Byleth said.

-

Mercedes is the first person Byleth tells the truth about her strange nature too, and the first person to know about the ghost in her head, that bears the name of God.

Mercedes isn't sure why she's entrusted with something like this. Maybe Byleth sees something in her- or sees something in her future- that convinces her Mercedes is worth trusting. Perhaps its just because Mercedes is the only person Byleth's age at the college; everyone else is too old or too young, but Mercedes, like the fabled third meal in the bear's house, is just right.

Whatever the reason, Byleth shares her concerns with the only peer she has at Garreg Mach, and Mercedes becomes the first person to know that there is something about Byleth that is truly different.

She joins the Golden Deer, the first of Byleth's converts from the Lions, and the second overall behind only gentle Linhardt, though she is never quite a student- not like the others.

( And not to Byleth.)

-

How in the world do you walk up to a man- particularly one with whom she has such a complicated history- and just say “you're going to die, let me save you?”

Mercedes doesn't know. She just keeps training, keeps talking, circles and circles without ever landing on the question... but she ends with “be safe”, she always ends with “be safe.” She wishes her brother safe and prays every night to the Goddess, who might be in Byleth, who might _be _Byleth, what in the world has she stumbled onto?

But life goes on at Garreg Mach, even as she and her brother become something like friends again, despite all the distance between here and the home she abandoned him in. Classes go by, homework is done, and Byleth recruits. Goddess, Byleth recruits- half the school comes to them before Rhea shuts her down, the teachers complaining that the new teacher's popularity is stealing all the students.

( Byleth cries that night, that she is able to save only this fistful of human lives, and no more. Mercedes holds her, the first time Byleth lets her touch her; the professor seems almost scared of Mercedes' touch, and will not even shake her hand, strange for a woman who otherwise blushes so easily in Mercedes' presence. But that night, when Byelth realizes she will never save anyone else, that her great work of alchemy can save only these few, she wept, and clung to Mercedes, her crying not great awful sobs but somehow worse, just terrible, quiet tears as she cried into Mercedes's shoulder.)

Mercedes helps where she can, though it doesn't amount to much. Byleth is the front end, and Mercedes the hidden back end- she doubts any other student would even recognize that she is working at all.

Mercedes always _was_ good at slipping into the background.

She works to integrate the students who come, not recruiting, but helping to keep those Byleth catches. She takes up cooking for the Deer, food preparation being the one skill no Deer really has, her fine meals promoting unity and a sense of teamwork. She helps when students need reassurance for any reason, she discretely assists Hilda as she becomes their great sergeant, and she is grateful when Dorothea takes over as something like a den mother, the songstress relieves much of Mercedes' burden.

Outside of class, in battle- for Byleth must make them masters of warfare, or the war to come will master them, instead- Mercedes keeps them alive in battle, dancing the steps in tandem with Marianne and Linhardt that keep them alive... though that fades as her archery begins to take over, putting her newfound skills to hard practice. She still keeps them alive, but by killing their enemies before they can strike, instead; healing as preventive measure, and they always did say an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure.

( She tells that to Jeritza, once, and his laughter is so long it hurts him, he thinks it's the funniest thing anyone's ever said. She will keep that memory with her for long decades, his surprised and delighted amusement.)

Along the way, Mercedes learns something of the Golden Deer herself, becomes fond of this strangest House. She learns of Claude's wisdom, of Ignatz' beautiful dreams, of Leonie's fierce protectiveness, almost caustic in how much she wants to keep her Housemates safe; she learns of Linhardt's wisdom, of Petra's unquenchable spirit, of Ashe's chivalry. Of Ferdinand's strange greatness, that he is growing into with each word he hears from other lips; of Hilda's devotion to Claude, a stronger shield than even the steel she packs clanking into battle. She learns, and she learns to love them, these strange children whom she has thrown her lot in with.

She even learns of Byleth, she is able to see how the teacher makes the smallest expressions mean so much, she learns to read her like a book. The print is small, but legible, and Marianne has a keen eye from long hours of bow practice; and she knows the woman's secrets, if she is a book then Mercedes has been allowed to read the ending first, and so she understands so much more of what she sees.

But the learning is not just of people, but of power. They teach each other to harness new magic. Mercedes learns that her sloth has rendered her, oldest of her classmates, quite behind in the learning of reason; Byleth tutors her in it, speeds her up, teaches her that fire and lightning live in her veins. Mercedes will giggle at that, wondering how someone so laid-back could have passionate flame and dramatic thunder in her soul, and Byleth will laugh back that maybe it's because she's a holy woman; fire and lightning are associated with many tales of the divine, after all.

( Later, when all truth is out, Mercedes will look back on that, and she won't know whether to laugh or cry. Inches from truth, but neither of them saw it..)

The wannabe nun, in turn, tutors Byleth in faith, which comes most naturally to the mercenary after an initial period of stumbling; the light doesn't seem to like being bothered by Byleth, reacts oddly, almost as if it does not know what to do.

It is Rhea, of all people, who teaches Byleth how to get past the block, telling Byleth not to ask the light to help her, but to _command _it.

That goes against literally everything Mercedes has ever been taught about the magic of the divine, but it works for Byleth; she does not beg or pray for help, she simply _acts_, and it is done, the magic is eager to assist her when she does it this way. It is almost frightening to see; Mercedes must ask to receive aid, but Byleth simply demands, as if salt and testaments old and new were written into her skin with holy writ, as though she were some terrible fulcrum on which the stars turned.

It'd be more frightening to see if it had not saved all their lives, at least once; that light in Byleth's hand the command of the divine, saying _Thou shall not die._ The holy is not safe, but it _can _be a friend, and the sun in Byleth's hand had kept them all alive more than once- the same way the light of Dorothea had saved Mercedes' life, the day she discovered she could do it. An abundance of healers do they have; a good thing to, given how often Byleth puts them to battle.

The world becomes this, for a little while: into Byleth's tormented life of schedules and practice and fearful visions comes Mercedes, like a breath of fresh air, a confidant and a comfort to a woman who had never before needed or wanted those things, but now hungered for it, who was so worried that any source of relief was welcome. And in turn, into Mercedes' life of contented disgruntlement came this mercenary woman with her wild visions, who frightened and entranced her in equal measure, who wanted her and was scared of wanting her, whose very presence pushed Mercedes to do more, to _act._

Thus do they serve each other; thus do they find something like happiness. In the first few months, they fall into an easy rhythm with each other, these two grown women in this class full of children, both of them half mothers to this deranged brood of fawns, sharing injokes and exasperation with their fellows. The days pass peacefully under white clouds, despite their joint fear of the future.

( Life is not as sweet as a song, but it does have a rhythm to it, if you'll listen.)

And then the Tomb happens, and Mercedes loses her brother all over again.

-

She knows.

She knows the second she sees him, he sits the way he always sits when he's astride a horse, and... and _Goddess_, _Goddess_, _no. _She'd made fun of him for it not a week ago, the way he always sat on top of a horse like it made him God, he was such an _arrogant _horseman...

Be he dressed like a demon from hell, it could not hide him from her; that was her brother.

( When Lysithea goes forth, Mercedes has a horrible moment where she does not know who she wants to win, and it sickens her.)

She stares after him for a long moment, when he flees this battle before Lysithea's groundshaking might; she thinks Claude catches her, but she doesn't think the others do, and the battle in the Tomb continues when she shakes off her surprise.

-

“ Emile, I know. Tell me how to save you.”

The greatest risk she has ever taken. The words fly from her lips desperately. She had found him the next day, everyone is celebrating the Tomb but all Mercedes can see is Emile, _Emile_, he is in that reaper's mask and oh, have Byleth's visions ever been so cruel before? The reaper takes her brother, but this is not death, this is less clean, this is _worse_.

He pauses, looking at her, eyes expressionless. After a moment of great deliberation, he raises his hand to his mask and takes it off, letting her see his face for the first time.

He looks into her eyes, and his expression grows sad, he frowns and it reaches his eyes even as hers fill with tears.

“ You can't,” Emile says to her, and then the mask is on, and she will not see his face again at Garreg Mach.

-

She keeps training, and he keeps talking, as if he is more than one person, and Emile is not the person she has disagreement with. She talks back, she still spends time with him, but she cannot talk to him of... of the reaper, she tries and he shuts her down, she is _desperate _but she cannot find a place in him to grab onto. He is before her, and still he slips through her fingers like fine-grained sand.

( He wishes he could stay. Edelgard does him this much favor; if he can take Mercedes alive, he will be allowed to keep her as a prisoner. It is the most Edelgard's raging heart can allow of one who is her enemy, even to do it as a kindness for one of her most faithful; she cannot help herself, her fires burn too hot. Edelgard is an engine of death stoked for war, and when time comes, she will not be able to handle the pressure; she will explode, and take all Adrestia with her.)

-

“ What do you see for us now?” Mercedes asked.

“ It warps and twists,” Byleth said. “ The future is more solid now that... that I can't save anyone else, my actions aren't upsetting the visions as much... but there's... it's still a lot to take in.”

Byleth's classroom, as always; where so many had learned so much, where Mercedes had been made privy to all Byleth's impossible secrets.

Mercedes sighed. “ I can't imagine how awful it is for you.”

“ It's bad,” Byleth noted clinically. Mercedes reached a hand out, but Byleth shied away; the nun, irritated at her failures with her brother, found this was too much, and finally spoke out, despite her sloth.

“ Why do you avoid my touch? Do you just not like me much?”

“ I...” Byleth began, then sighed, and looked away from her. “ It's the opposite problem. I like you. Quite a bit.”

“ Then why not let me touch you?” Mercedes asked. She could not pretend she did not feel... something, though the horror of what was happening to her brother drowned it. Byleth was still the woman who had led her to Emile, and knowing all these secrets, and all the time they'd spent together... yes, there _could _be something there.

“ I... I'm sorry,” Byleth said. “ I should have told you this first, but I... I had to save you before it was safe to say anything. And then your brother took prominence, and... and I didn't want you to know... you can be happy with so many people, Mercedes. Ignatz, for example, and Ferdinand, Ashe or Lorenz... or Annette, it will be long years before either of you can really come to terms with it, but someday she will come to live with you and you will be happy until the day you die.”

Mercedes was stunned for a long moment, but familiarity cut through some of the shock. “ I... you've seen our _romantic _futures, too?”

“ Why not?” Byleth asked, and only her long exposure to the professor let Mercedes hear the _despair _in her voice, how much this knowledge hurt her. “ It's part of your future, isn't it? Why _wouldn't _I be able to see it?”

( Sothis tried to soothe; but Byleth ignored her, too wrapped up in her own pain to listen to the ghost.)

“ You've seen us,” Mercedes said, pinpointing the problem, sinking an arrow into the heart of it. “ Me and you. From the very beginning.”

“ Yes,” Byleth sighed. “ I... I'm sorry. What I see isn't the future, we've already averted a few things... but you still should have known. I'm sorry. It's okay, I know how awful that is, you couldn't stay with someone who... it is so _easy_, to manipulate, with this knowledge... but I've never... I've tried not to do anything untoward.”

Byleth still would not look her in the eyes. Mercedes wanted her to, wanted... wanted to see.

“ Look me in the eyes,” Mercedes whispered, and Byleth shut hers tight.

“ No, I don't... it's fine, you don't have to...”

“ I want to _know_, Byleth,” Mercedes said. “ I have a right.”

And there was no arguing with that, so Byleth turned to her and opened her eyes.

(_A wedding. It's a wedding, and she's looking at it from Byleth's eyes, through Byleth's mind; it's a wedding, and all Byleth can see is Mercedes. There is nothing real to Byleth in this moment except the woman she loves. They are at Garreg Mach, some part of her is dimly aware, but her eyes are filled with Mercedes. She will love this woman forever, she would do anything she asked, if it made her happy, she is so happy in this moment that all her soul is wrapped up in the woman before her and the ring on her finger and in “I do.”_)

Byleth blinked, and it was gone, and the quiet professor's eyes held only unshed tears.

“ Did you see?” Byleth asked, and Mercedes nodded.

“ A wedding...”

“ Our wedding,” Byleth said, forlorn. “ I... you could make me... happy. I'm sorry. I don't want to keep secrets from you. So many secrets are kept from me, and I hate that, I know so little and too much all at once. But I... I saw us... I saw us marry. That you could love me. That's why I'm... awkward. You don't have to, I know you can't. What kind of marriage would that be? Me knowing everything, you knowing nothing... it'd be monstrous.”

She turned away from her.

“ That's why- I've tried to stay away,” Byleth said. “ You... you have a choice, and I'm... how would that even work? No, just... sorry. I'll stay away. I'm sorry.”

Mercedes thought of that vision, of the feelings- _Byleth's _feelings- of her devotion, and how there was no deception there, no trickery. Just... just _happiness_.

A woman who loved you like that might make you very happy indeed... and Mercedes had not been happy in a long time. What happiness she had now she owed to Byleth, warning her at their second meeting, to go see her brother, telling her she had little time... and then asking her to join this House, which Mercedes had fallen into so easily.

Yes... Byleth had given her a lot of happiness already. Might do that forever, if she let her... and a woman already scared to take advantage of her might be trustworthy, she had gone out of her way not to do it when she had every chance in the world and now Mercedes _knew_, it would be harder from this point on for Byleth to trick her... but it wasn't as if Byleth had ever tried it before. She had even told her the names of others she might love... she had given her a choice, and Mercedes _hated _those... but...

For the second time in her life, Mercedes decided.

“ Be open with me, always,” Mercedes said, and reached out and took Byleth's hand in hers, even as the professor tried to pull away, tugging her closer. “ Tell me all you see. You are not to blame for your abilities... But if you hide it from me, _that's _wrong. So be honest... and tell me this. Will I be happy with you?”

Byleth looked her in the face, surprised.

( _All I ever wanted, _she thought, as she looked at this beautiful woman, the one person she could turn to with all her fears and worries, whom she had fallen in love with despite herself.)

Byleth nodded.

“ I... I think so.”

Mercedes smiled back. “ Then that's good enough.”

And she leaned forward and kissed her. Byleth was still for a moment, then she kissed back like a bite, she kissed her so fierce and hard it stole all Mercedes' breath, not a great kiss but a _powerful _one, like she was a fortress Byleth was laying claim to.

When she pulled back, Byleth's stunned face grew slowly into a smile, a real smile, big as the sun, there was joy on her face where no emotion had ever been that strong before, and it grabbed tight on Mercedes' heart, to know she was responsible for bringing so much happiness to someone who felt so little.

It made her feel like the greatest woman in the world, and when she kissed Byleth again, the feeling stayed.

( Another way in which the holy woman is like Jeralt; his interest in Sitri had been piqued by her little gestures, but her smile shattered all his dreams and reforged them into just one- a life with her.)

-

Most of Byleth's visions are of specific conversations they've had- are going to have- and of battles they've fought... are going to fight.

Mercedes has a new enemy: _tense_.

Still, it's not so bad, and it doesn't really change the relationship as much as Byleth feared. She doesn't see _all _their conversations, or even most of them, just a select few, though they tend to be important ones. They go through those quickly enough, and their relationship hits a sort of comfortable tempo, despite... everything.

Technically, their relationship is a secret; probably the least interesting secret the two keep, and the one they are worst at hiding. The Deer figure it out literally two days in. Claude compliments them both and tells them where they can hide from the guards. Hilda arranges to be “out of the office” while doing secretary work to give them alone time. Lysithea threatens to tell unless she is given more sweets, cheerfully admitting that its childish but the food's too good to care.

Ferdinand the duo overheard, talking with Lorenz about how he thought Byleth was with Rhea and his surprise that she ended up with Mercedes; Byleth shakes her head at it. Rhea's interest in her is _bizarre_, but it's not romantic. It's too... weird, something half-family and half-religious, and all strange.

The rest of the school finds out soon enough, though it is still technically a secret. Dimitri awkwardly praises Mercedes for finding a girlfriend, awkward as he always is when dealing with things he's unused to, too afraid the monster inside is talking and not Dimitri himself. Alois claps Byleth on the back and tells her that she made a good decision in going for a cook; everyone gets ugly with age but cooking, like wine, only gets better.

Edelgard's mood is terribly vicious for a week before recovering, the girl's crush ruined by this new revelation, and she's never able to be anything but spiteful to Mercedes afterwards, despite tryign desperately to control herself.

( It would not have helped anything for Byleth to _not _be in a relationship- this ending was written long before Byleth entered Edelgard's life- but it is just another small dream of hers that life is taking away. For all the horror she will unleash, for all that she will deserve the death that is coming for her, remember this of Edelgard: her life was a nightmare she could not wake from.)

Seteth catches them at one point, simply kissing and holding each other, and reprimands them- but only gently. This is after they have rescued Flayn, and so Seteth is willing to let them get away with almost anything; they saved his daughter, after all.

( Mercedes tries not to think about Emile after that, tries not to... not to wonder, about a letter he left for her, apologizing for not being the little brother she loved anymore, and thanking her for all the time she spent with him in the last few months. Tries... and fails. She is never more grateful for Byleth's precognition as when the mercenary finds her right before a breakdown the next day, and leads her somewhere safe and secluded, so she can shatter in peace, her lover putting her back together afterwards with gentle hands.)

Jeralt takes her aside one day after that; Seteth had apparently told him, if no one else.

“ So you're the woman my daughter's after,” Jeralt said to Mercedes, quietly, once they were safely away from others. They were on the grand bridge of Garreg Mach, on a fine summer day. “ Weird, didn't think she'd go for a student... I'll admit I find the whole student-teacher thing kind of skeevy, who knew I raised a pervert?”

Mercedes barked a laugh at his dry, salty tones before covering her mouth, giggling. “ I... mm. If it helps, sir, we don't do anything... improper in the context of being student and teacher. She has Hanneman grade my efforts.”

“ Smart kid. Must be getting it from her mom, she sure didn't get it from me,” he said, chuckling as he leaned over the railing.

“ She talks of you a lot, sir,” Mercedes said, giving him a smile. “ I think she learned everything she knows from you- she certainly believes she does. She's proud to be your daughter- I don't know if she'd told you, she's very reserved.”

He looked at Mercedes when she said that, really _looked _at her, and nodded after a moment. “ Her mom was that way, too,” he said. “ Sitri... she was always... stoic. Except with me. Made me feel... feel like the greatest man in the world, because she'd _smile _when she saw me, and she never did that for anyone else.”

Mercedes nodded, felt empathy connect her with Jeralt; they two alone knew what it was to make this reserved women smile, and it united them. “ When she smiles, all I can see is a future with her.”

“...You're alright,” Jeralt said, and grinned at her before taking a swig of liquor from his flask. The smell of it alone was so powerful that it made Mercedes feel lightheaded.

Seeing her reaction, Jeralt's grin turned mischievous. “ Fancy a drink?”

“ No,” Mercedes said- then held her hand out anyway. Jeralt laughed before passing it to her, and with the courage born of facing monsters on the battlefield, Mercedes took a hit.

“ Hit” was right; the alcohol tasted like a haymaker, but she got it down, breathing hard out her nose as she passed it back to Jeralt, who nodded appreciatively.

“ Well, you ain't a kid, that's for damn sure,” he said, taking another go. Jeralt's prodigious appetite for strong alcohol was not exaggerated, it seemed.

( The Deer- as they are traveling to make their assault on Shambhala- will have a drinking contest, just for fun. Claude, who never likes drinking- who doesn't like anything that clouds his mind- will judge it, Mercedes and Byleth are on standby as healers, and everyone else competes. It is Leonie who will win it, to everyone's surprise, proving herself to truly be Jeralt's inheritor; she will beat Raphael and Linhardt both, the duo the last folks standing against the Blade Breaker reborn, though they will later learn that Linhardt was cheating like crazy with a healing spell he'd developed that neutralized most of the liquor. Even with that advantage, Leonie beats him, and Raphael's more honest attempts too, cheering loudly before she passed out drunk on the table.)

“ What's your age anyway, kid?'

Mercedes did not point out how he'd just contradicted himself; Jeralt was just the kind of man who called everyone under a certain age “kid.” “ I'm twenty-two, sir,” she said.

“ At least my kid fell for someone who calls me 'sir', I like that,” Jeralt said, musing and dry as old salt. Mercedes chuckled, and could see why Byleth had come out alright, despite everything; Jeralt was a dry sort of man, and that must have been a tremendous help, in dealing with his most unusual daughter. “ Year older than her- huh. Not how student-teacher stuff usually goes. Anyway... I approve. Just be gentle with her. I've buried people for less than hurting my girl.”

“ If I hurt her,” Mercedes said, “ I'll deserve whatever's coming. She's so strong... but she's... little, on the inside, small. I want to protect her, keep her safe, see her smile...”

“ You're a lot like me,” Jeralt said approvingly, and Mercedes would keep that warm favor in her heart for many long years after his death.

Then he smiled wryly.

“ Just don't get her pregnant,” he said, and Mercedes bust out laughing at the absurdity, Jeralt smiling pleased with himself at the joke, as the holy woman laughed so hard she almost burst a gut, ringing out over the valley from the bridge.

-

She keeps up her archery practice, even without Jeritza there.

It reminds her of her brother, of the time she had with him after she had thought she would never see him again.

And- perhaps- if she is good enough, she will be able to defeat him, and maybe bring him home.

-

She will make a third choice, during Garreg Mach's last week. Third time's the charm, as they say... but more than charm is needed.

For in this week, they prepare to go to war- and Goddess, they are fighting _Edelgard_, how did this come to be? Edelgard, who Mercedes will always remember as the sweets-loving girl who hated her for winning Byleth's heart, now seeks to kill them all- she will decide, for herself, that she will not die without Byleth's ring on her hand.

It's a big decision, and it takes all of her newfound strength, to throw off her sloth, to make a _choice _past her depression and her fears... but newfound strength she has, and soon, she is off like an arrow from her bow, hunting down her fellow Deer, to ask them to help her with one last thing, before the war takes all of them.

She makes a choice, no matter how it terrifies her, and the Deer are eager to help, eager to think about something that is not the coming war or how they will have to kill their classmates, or this horrible sense of _betrayal_, that is perhaps the cruelest of Edelgard's injuries- not just that she now seeks to kill those whom she has lived with for almost a year, but that she was willing to do it without even offering them a chance to surrender. For all her class and elegance, Edelgard was a _brute_, she had toyed with the feelings of her classmates and thrown them aside for a dream she might never make real, a dream they would have helped her with, if she had but asked.

( Some, like Ferdinand, will always mourn the woman they knew; but Mercedes will only ever feel a kind of _fury_ at Edelgard, a fury mollified only by her discovery of how the princess took care of her brother when Mercedes could not. Some things even the holy find unforgivable.)

But the Deer wish to think of other things, even as they desperately prepare, and so in the last days of Garreg Mach, before the academy was undone, and all the old ways of Fodlan were destroyed by the weight of Edelgard's fury, a woman who once wanted to be a nun hunted down a woman who was becoming a Goddess, with a ring in her hands gifted by her classmates. Ignatz and Hilda had picked it out, and Lorenz had paid for it.

History will record that they exchanged rings after the war was over, and she will not begrudge the history books the mistake; it fits, it feels nice, to imagine that the war ended and her new life began, one chapter closing and another opening. There's a symmetry to it, and that's how Ashe and Ingrid's book will report it, how Dorothea's plays will portray it, when they talk of the new Goddess of Fodlan, and her great love.

But that is not the truth. The truth is this; Mercedes had presented Byleth with a ring Hilda had picked out and with tears in her eyes asked the once-mercenary to marry her, and Byleth accepted, before slipping her mother's ring over Mercedes' finger, the last thing of her parents that Byleth had left in all the world. She had entrusted that last symbol of her parents to Mercedes, and they made a family with each other at last; Byleth's scarred lips had been rough and sweet on Mercedes' own.

They are fiances for a day only. They must marry quickly. Too much is happening to trust that either of them will be alive tomorrow; if their rings are to be anything more than a hope, they must say their vows now.

They ask Rhea to do it, and the Archbishop does so, blessing the wedding, conducting the short ceremony flawlessly despite her own complicated feelings dancing in the background. Claude is Byleth's best man; Annette is Mercedes' maid of honor. No other Deer attend, busy with preparations, and no great celebration is held, though Rhea promises that once Edelgard is thrown back they'll have a lavish feast; the promise rings hollow and false in their ears even as Rhea says it, as they see the size of the army arrayed against them, as Edelgard reveals her true colors at last and all the world's possibilities are burned down to one.

Whatever futures the world once held, now only one remains- the war Byleth had foreseen.

Garreg Mach does not survive the change. Garreg Mach was a place of dreams, the great dream of Fodlan unity and peace, and the smaller dreams of its students; Edelgard's decision is a dawn that none of those dreams survive, the edge of it cuts them down like meaningless chaff.

Mercedes' dream is not spared, either; Byleth falls down into the dark, and Mercedes' world goes with her.

( She is always the survivor, whether she is the one running or the one who is left behind, and it always hurts.)

-

She's not sure how she got out of Garreg Mach. She remembers Byleth falling after defending Rhea's draconic form, she remembers screaming. She thinks it was Hilda, but she's not sure; she just remembers strong arms grabbing her, carrying her to safety when her vision was on a small spot where, once, her wife stood.

Regardless, her next memory is waking up a few days later in an army camp, retreated into Leceister territory, the Adrestian army and all its monsters hot on their heels as they flee back to whatever safety their fortifications can grant them.

Mercedes does the only thing she can. She gets up, and she goes back to work, healing and killing, the way Byleth would want her to, subsuming her grief into the struggle that will define her generation. The others worry, but what can be done? It is not as if Mercedes does not have long experience losing those she cares for.

( Some nights, she collapses, weeping; but she always gets up in the morning. Grief, like everything, becomes easier the longer you deal with it.)

The others help her, they support her in her suffering, as she supports them; they all mourn their beloved Professor, who taught them so much. Who, it seems, was teaching them to _survive_, for all her lessons now prove their worth; the Golden Deer, who have fought so long alongside the mercenary, have inherited much of her great skill.

For all the war around them, they do not die, and instead they prove themselves to be the finest arrows in the Alliance's quiver. Where the Deer go, Adrestia loses, and they become the only shield the Alliance has, in the half decade in which Edelgard desperately tries to grind their nation and all their culture and history underneath her heel.

Mercedes is part of that shield, a part that does not rust; she does not age for five years. She switches her hairstyle, cuts off the long side plait- a liability in battle, enemies too often grabbing at it- but she does not age, even as the others do. She changes, but her changes are internal, even as the others grow into themselves- as Lysithea becomes a beautiful if frail young woman, as Claude grows into his muscles and beard, as Hilda gains the bulk and strength of a warrior born.

No, Mercedes' changes are on the inside, and she does not really notice that she is not aging, too busy going to war in that half decade in which she believes herself to be a widow. She does not return to Faerghus, to either the Kingdom or the Dukedom that Edelgard makes out of it, save once with Annette, on a doomed mission to save her father. They will find he was dead before they started, that their journey was in vain, and she will hold her dearest friend tight as she bawls in Mercedes' arms for all the catharsis she will never have, now, for all the words that needed to be said between her and her father that now must stay locked up in her throat. They will steal Crusher for her from her relatives, taking her ancestral weapon in hand with a plan wherein they fake being nuns and holy women on pilgrimage.

But after that, her home is in the east. To Leceister comes the widow of the Goddess, a wife of three days, whose honeymoon was the battle in which she lost her beloved. She does what she can to keep Claude's great dream alive, they all do; from this fractious land arises the great unity of the Deer, the one thing holding it together.

The political side they neutralize first; they are Leceisterfolk after all, it is politics that they take to most naturally. The council must be made up of loyalists, and so they go to work.

Lorenz, in memory of Byleth, subverts his father's rule whenever he can, and weakens the Imperialist faction from the inside. Leonie helps him, his mercenary right hand, alongside Ignatz and Raphael, the three going on secret missions that bedevil anyone who openly supports the Empire, weakening the faction enough that it is never able to contest Claude's rule. Acheron's troops and funds are taken, Lorenz's father weakened against his enemies until he must lean on Claude's aid for support; he declares for Claude, to his own horrible irritation.

Hilda comes into her own, no longer Goneril's least child but Claude's most stalwart supporter, dragging her high and noble House to his side by sheer force of will. She is his retainer still, and seeing her faith in Claude, seeing how impossibly high he is in her esteem, her House cannot help but treat him with respect; Holst becomes his loudest supporter when he realizes the respect goes both ways, because for all his flaws, Holst loves his little sister, and he sees that Claude does, too.

( This warning alone he gives Claude- that if he hurts her, Holst will kill him for days. Claude nods, and tells him that if he hurts his Hilda, he will deserve it; and Holst, to his own surprise, will think Claude might actually _be_ worthy of his sister, and shake hands with him.)

Judith's support is a given, and so, with all that weight behind him, Claude is able to do something he thought he could never do: he sends the word that the Alliance will be neutral no longer. From Derdriu comes this roaring proclamation from the Grand Duke, he throws down the gauntlet: the Alliance declares war on Adrestia.

All hell breaks loose. Ferdinand steals all the supplies of his House and runs them back across the Bridge of Myrddin, he brings an army of Aegir faithful with him and all the money of his ancient house beside, weakening the war machine of the Empire even as Leceister is bolstered on his new funds.

Brigid breaks free and attacks Adrestia from behind, Claude having planned this with Petra for years, dividing Adrestian attention at the worst possible time. Leceister merchant ships ferry desperate boatloads of weapons and troops to support their new ally behind Adrestian lines, protected by Leceister battleships, which engage Adrestian dreadnoughts and sink them into the sea with ballista and battlespell.

From the West, the last army of Gaspard arises at Ashe's call, guided by the greatest knight of Faerghus, Ingrid; and wars they win, dancing and warring, coming eventually to Leceister, bringing with them an army ready to avenge long-dead Lonato.

Edelgard's Demonic Beasts do her no good here, even the flying ones do not have the stamina to go to sea; Leceister, meanwhile, has a long history of sea trade, and abusing it grants them dominion over the waters. Golden flags fly over warships that assail every port in Adrestia, and while along the coast her Demonic Beasts can keep them at bay, they cannot set sail for fear of ruination.

Hanneman, Annette, Linhardt and Lysithea work on desperate superweapon gambits in secret, hoping to use his artificial Crests to turn all of Leceister into a superpowered army against Edelgard's Demonic Beasts and Agarthan aid- the plan never comes to pass, but it is a sign of their desperation that they research it at all.

Dorothea heals, and she sings, and of all things it is her song that works the most miracles; she has a dab hand at convincing others, and she goes forth and _preaches_, she is a holy woman after all, she convinces the citizens of Leceister that this is more than just war for money or noble favor. This is a war for the heart of Fodlan, and so volunteers arrive in droves at the front, not desperate Adrestian conscripts or dour Faerghus villagers but stout Leceister citizens, _choosing _to go, their hearts full of fire and their heads full of the songstress' words.

( And thus it is that Dorothea kills more people than any, because she convinces them to go, a truth that haunts her all her life. She is comforted only by the knowledge that the war _must _be fought, or let the Agarthans reign over all the earth.)

Marianne and Mercedes go with her, holy women traveling and healing. They travel wherever healing must be done, and she preaches, too; she preaches of a Goddess reborn, she preaches of better days ahead, she preaches of Leceister being chosen by the Goddess and destined to win the war, if they but hold on just a little longer. Not entirely true things, but things people need to hear and believe in, and she keeps the people in high spirits even as the war seeks to drag them down.

When Imperial might falls on Allied defenses, they hold, despite the best efforts of traitors; the Deer hold the line. Battered and bruised, nonetheless are Leceister's lands still its own, even as Faerghus is sliced into the Dukedom and the loyalist territories; an irony, that the most fractious of Fodlan's lands is the only one to remain whole.

And one day, five years in, Claude- who seems so certain she will be there, who has a faith in Byleth that he has never had in anyone else before- will take them back to Garreg Mach, and Mercedes will witness a miracle.

( When Mercedes grabs Byleth, when she holds her and touches her face, when she begins to sob at her love being alive, the other Deer will give her space. Of all those who lost Byleth, Mercedes lost the most.)

-

Widow no longer, but a wife again- and has any miracle ever been greater than this, the simple warmth of her lover's hand in hers again?- Mercedes will stay with her beloved Byleth as the war enters its last days, as Claude's hurricane brilliance fills the sails of Leceister and the great stag of the East turns itself at last against its oppressor.

They are heady days for all of them, drunk on Byleth's return, drunk on Claude's vision of a world without borders, drunk on victory in a war where none of them had thought it possible to win at all. The Great Bridge is taken. Edelgard's army of monsters and madmen is thrown back into Adrestia, Imperial might falling before Allied advance. Gronder Field is taken not by the Eagle or the Lion but by the Deer, history undone at the place where it was made.

But even as old things are undone, new history is being made, too; Claude calls on the last and most secret of allies. Almyran forces fight alongside Leceister, as Brigid forces come to join, too, at Petra's call, the Deer unite again at Gronder Field at last. Three nations go to war, and in this place where the Eagle and the Lion are broken, the bonds of the Deer are reforged.

They laugh. They cry. The coalition is back together again. Claude's great vision starts to become more than just an idea in Claude's head; it becomes something every soldier can see when they look across the field, witnessing swords of Brigid and axes of Almyra fighting alongside the bows of Leceister.

It is small, yet, just a spark, but a verdant wind blows gently on it, and it begins to grow.

All these things come to pass for them in those days, and more besides, personal victories to go along with the wartime triumphs. Lorenz grows into the fullness of his adulthood, and marries Leonie, both of them overcoming themselves at last to have what they wanted. Ferdinand gives up his claims to Adrestia to marry Petra, for he knows that Brigid would never accept an Adrestian noble- but it might accept a Golden Deer, for it is known in Brigid that their own beloved Princess fights under that sacred banner.

Marianne is at peace with herself, in love with Raphael and no longer afraid of her own veins, and Lysithea, with Hanneman's help, is unraveling a process that might, in time, lead her to a cure, the dark mage giddy with the idea of living to see the impossible age of thirty-two, and even beyond- a small dream, once impossible, that her work might yet make real. She might yet live to be old, and that is another miracle in this sanctity-stuffed days.

Indeed, these chaotic times are perfect for the Third House; they are in their element, in these high-spirited days of the impossible. The Deer bound playfully and triumphantly through all hell and high water, and the flight of Imperial Eagles is thrown from the sky by the whirlwind of their dance.

The war is still ongoing, and still horrific, but things are reaching a crescendo, beginning to end. It looks as though there will be a new dawn at the end of all this nightmare; and, wonder of wonders, it is beginning to look like they will _all_ live to see it.

For Mercedes, though, the only miracle she has ever wanted has already happened; one of the people she has lost has returned to her, and that is enough for her.

( She has lost so many people... but one returned. Just one... but the distance is infinite, between one and zero, oh, there is no comparison. Byleth has returned, and it is enough to keep all her sorrows at bay.)

-

Mercedes will save the Golden Deer many times. She will save them with the healing that comes so naturally to her; she will save them with her archery, with this talent she chose. She will heal their wounds and kill their enemies, their Mercedes, all the duality of the Deer in one woman.

She will save their spirits with her fine cooking and her finer advice, this sweet woman, whom all the Deer turn to in times of need, a mother to many. She will save them when they are scared or hurt, or simply need a little help, the little salvations that add up to so much, in the final tally.

And she will save them at the last with one more miracle, a miracle at Fort Merceus. When the terrible light falls from heaven and burns the earth, the Death Knight will see her amongst the Herd, and he will find that he cannot bring himself to let her die.

He will warn them away, and in doing so, the Death Knight will save them all; Caspar and all of the Adrestians present will perish, but the Knight will go out of his way to make sure that, when the Javelin falls, and the light of death shines upon the land, it will do no harm to the Alliance. The Herd will owe him that kindness all their days; they would have died at Merceus, but that he chose to save them.

And so it comes to pass that, of all the Herd's many enemies, only the most bloodthirsty and sadistic among them ever showed them mercy.

For Mercedes, it is the most terrible and painful of all the ironies and all the miracles that surround the Golden Deer. It is painful, this knowledge that there was still some remnant of the brother she'd lost inside the monster. It _hurt_, to know that, for all Edelgard's delusions of grandeur and Bernadetta's unexpected kindnesses, for all Caspar's friendliness and Hubert's pragmatism, it was her murderous little brother alone among their foes who had the kindness to spare them- to know that somewhere inside his skull, there was a small part that might still be named _Emile_, that could not let his big sister die.

-

When time comes- as it always does- that things must end, she will hold him in Enbarr one last time, and comfort him, after Lyisthea and he have their last duel. Four times did Lysithea sally forth against her brother, and four proves to be one time too many; Lysithea begged him not to fight her, but he simply shook his head. Darkness takes him, proving Byleth's visions true, and Mercedes simply holds him in her arms.

They will say the last things between siblings that they must say, and it must be enough.

And she will be there at the end, when Byleth kills Edelgard, and they must turn themselves to the destruction of the dark.

( She will kiss Byleth, after Nemesis is dead once more, she will kiss her in that poisonous swamp, the kiss of new life. As Fodlan's new dawn rises, golden and glorious, they will go home, the two of them- home, to Garreg Mach, where someday, Byelth will ascend as Goddess, and Mercedes will be her Archbishop, to rein in perpetuity.)


	9. Byleth Eisner: Crowngiver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liked this so well I made it a separate chapter anyway; Byleth gets two chapters because she is the protagonist, lol.
> 
> One last chapter ahead: THE FUTURE.

**Byleth Eisner**

**Crowngiver**

Sothis wakes up.

Byleth breaks, and scatters across the river of time.

But she is still whole, even as she is separated. To be a God is to be a thing of paradoxes. She is one singular entity. She is divided into multitudinous parts. She is a thing of contradictions; she is human, she is divine, she is nobody important, she is the most powerful person in the world.

( When she finds out the truth later- when she learns that her heart had never beat, that she was, at day's end, a stillborn, undead thing masquerading as alive on the power of a dead Goddess- she will nod her head. Of course. She is such a strangeling thing that it almost feels as if she _had _to be something so strange, to exist, as if only by being a multitude of weird coincidences and impossibilities is she allowed to exist at all.)

She sees the future in visions as she walks back with the three Lords, Edelgard imperious, Dimitri nervous, Claude friendly.

( So much they told her, in those days, with something as simple as how they walked... if only she had listened. Maybe she could have saved them all.)

There is a river. She has been floating along it until now, but now she has a choice; just one. One choice, and everything will come after that, the entire world depends on what she chooses to do now.

( No wonder Sothis sleeps, gives this responsibility to her; her hands sweat with terror. How can she choose, knowing that so much depends on it? Who is she, to determine the fate of so many lives?)

The part of the river she floats on is sea-green, the color her hair will take, someday, a thing she simply _knows. _At this moment she does not know why, does not know that Sothis, tired, shall dissolve herself into the greater part of Byleth, and bestow upon this mortal corpse the mantle of God, in hopes that she will keep up the tasks Sothis failed at.

What she does_ know,_ however, is this: the river forks into three paths.

One river is red. One river is oceans of blood and a happy ending, or something like one, yes; but the cost, oh Goddess, the cost. There were better ways to do it. Byleth will be haunted by it all her days, by that knowledge that all the death on her hands was unnecesary, and though she will love a woman down that route who will love her, too... it will never quite be enough to make her forget her regrets. The war is started from pain so deep it _must _have answer in blood, ravages all Fodlan so that one person's hurt might be avenged, and she... she has been lied to, that woman, who is indistinct and blurry in Byleth's sight. She has been lied to, and does not know it, thinks she knows all things; and in her ignorance she will consign nations and cities to the funeral pyre.

That river forks- there will come a decision point- Byleth will have to choose twice, if she floats down that stream. At a certain point, when she knows who the woman is, she will have to decide what she is willing to live with, what she is willing to accept. One path is red still, and she flies with black wings over endless fields of carnage. A better world, eventually- but only for the survivors, and only by the terms dictated from the top, social change inflicted by the executioner's axe.

One river is silver. That is the other path, there are Byleths who cannot stomach this evil, who turn from red to silver. Silver, and cold, and a woman responsible for more atrocity than any now living; an irony, that in turning from horror, that Byleth saves one responsible for even worse.

And yet sorrow flecks that river, falling like snow; regret that might change a woman, who might turn her hands from evil to good. A woman whose family, murdered, was catalyst for all her rage... secrets older than the stars, and grief deep as the sea. A second chance, maybe, and perhaps the woman deserved it... but perhaps, also, she did not. A strange river, a river of judgment and salvation, but so much death before that ending...

One river is blue. One river is a furious warrior and a desperate need to heal his shattered soul and a nation as broken as its king. One river is ugliness and atrocity and, eventually, a reckoning... but there will be a mistake, there is an undercurrent in that river that will be missed. Something will still survive in Fodlan, something terrible, that will slither into the dark safely and hound Fodlan into its future. The blue river is so beautiful, there is so much good down that river... but it is a pretty shine overtop failure, for in solving the obvious problem, they will miss the real reason things are going wrong. The monster will escape down that road...

The last river is not like the others. She can't see what's down it. She sees only gold, that river is _gold_, it is pure and shines and it kicks up its own breeze, like the ocean does. It is a verdant wind that brings scents and sounds to her she does not know- foreign spices, and a laugh, a laugh as big as the sun. If she squints, she can almost see something down that road- a man, she thinks, a bearded man, and he is laughing that big laugh.

The river bends and twists and turns. It is a river of chaos, it is _the _river of chaos, and even divine eyes cannot tell where it goes. It is the gold of coins flipping in the air, of decisions made and clung to, of free will and freedom. It shines, it shines so bright she cannot truly see where it leads, she does not _know _what lies down that road. It might lead to worse than nations of the dead or a failure to kill the true enemy, it might be worse than forgiving an old monster her sins.

Byleth does not _know _that it is better than those awful ends. She _knows_ that she does **not**_ know_ for sure what lays down that path.

But she does _know _one thing, and knowing is so important:

She knows that it _might _be better.

She flips the coin in the air herself, a coin that will take six years to land.

So when the question is asked of her by Rhea, Byleth thinks of the colors the House lords wear. She thinks of the rivers, and she thinks she knows what her visions mean... and so she makes her choice.

She picks the golden road of chaos, and prays that it leads her somewhere safe.

( Chaos is never stable, but it _can _be a sanctuary.)

-

Thus, Byleth, once a mercenary, is now a professor; and these Deer... there is something... familiar here. Something nice.

She _knows, _without knowing why, that Dimitri and Edelgard both need saving. Worse, they need saving from _themselves_, and she _knows _that you cannot save somebody from themselves. You can offer a hand to help them, but they must take your hand, they must choose to be aided before outsiders can do anything for them.

But Claude... he doesn't need _saving_. He just needs _help_. She cannot save someone who does not want to be saved; but Claude doesn't need her to rescue him, he just needs her assistance to achieve his dreams. They are more equal in partnership, he is more of a height with her, he does not descend into himself and require dramatic and selfless aid. He just needs a hand.

Perhaps she could save one of the others, if she devoted all her time and attention to it- but they would still have to consent, they would have to agree that they needed saving at all. They would have to acknowledge that they were going too far. They could still deny her, no matter how much effort she put forth.

Perhaps she could save one of them. Maybe. If they'd let her. If she was able to do so.

But she knows- and knowing is so important- that she _can_ help Claude.

So the last and least of the Three Houses does she pick for her home. Irony of ironies, it was not one of Claude's many schemes that had brought her in, but the simple truth of his position, that he was a good man in a desperate situation, which she had seen in the smile that did not reach his eyes. He alone had been honest with her at their first meeting, the self-proclaimed deceiver had been the worst liar in Garreg Mach; Edelgard hid unknown identities in her eyes, Dimitri lied even to himself about what he was really like inside, but Claude's obviously false expression told Byleth the plain truth.

So to the Golden Deer she goes, a crew in chaos, barely held together... and thus, perversely, trustworthy. There was no one lord here, even with Claude's leadership, and so it eased Byleth's heart, to realize that whatever great war or disaster is coming, no one in the Alliance could be planning it. They didn't have the unity for that kind of thing. Claude had his hands full just keeping the thing functioning.

And... there is something else, to this house of contradictions, which she, a paradoxical thing herself, appreciates. There is symbolism here, and symbolism is so real, in her life... symbolism of animals and colors both. Alone of the Houses, the Golden Deer is a herbivore. It does not have to kill other animals to survive, like eagles and lions both must, it does not feed on death. It is armed- it is well-armed- but the horns are for self-defense, not for hunting. It is a symbol of protection, of _life_, in comparison to the pounding imperial march of the Eagles and the fanatical violence of the Lions; its songs are celebratory rondos, elegant dances of joy and laughter, not lockstep marches nor cold waltzes.

The Golden Deer is a shield, not a sword, and a mercenary like her is aware of the difference, she _knows _that difference, and knowing is so important.

She still cannot see any further down this golden river; but she decides to trust in these children, who place such trust in her, and she puts on a crown of antlers.

She teaches them of war, in hopes they will survive what it is to come, in hopes that martial skill might avert the apocalypse; they, in turn, without even meaning too, teach her of friendship, of laughter, of emotions, of care.

Byleth got the better end of the deal by far, and it is a debt she will owe her students all eternity. She taught them to be warriors. They taught her how to be _people_.

Just another sacred incongruity; the students are the better teachers, in the House of the Golden Deer.

And as they teach each other, Byleth tries to figure out just what it is she is seeing.

-

She has been given all the answers in the world, but she has no questions to put them with.

An orange-haired boy passes her, and she sees long hair and a noble countenance above war-beaten plate. A brown-haired, smiling woman winks at her, and she hears a voice strong and sure, preaching in thundering tones, asking for volunteers to fight for the heart of Fodlan. A white-haired little girl asks her a question in class and Byleth feels a sword in her hands, edge sharpened by sorcery until the night could cut down death with spikes and teeth.

Where do these pieces go? She has been given a puzzle with no explanations, she has a thousand keys and no locks to put them in. She is drowning in revelations that go nowhere. She has read the book's ending before its beginning, and now knows things she is not supposed to, it confuses all her plans. Sothis helps where she can, but it is not enough, the ghost has questions of her own- and irony of ironies, for all her surfeit of prophecies, Byleth has no answers to give the ghost. The only questions the duo cannot answer are their own.

Still, some answers are consistent, and form a framework to hang all the rest on. Linhardt's eyes, drowning in horror at what he will do. Petra, nation shackled, never to be free. Annette, dying for a mad king. Ingrid, never to achieve her greatness.

And death. Mountains of death. Fields of endless corpses, under flags of green and blue and red. she knows- some piece of her, disjointed in time, has called back to the she that is right now- that something bad is coming, something beyond horrific... and the only people she sees who are alive sit under a flag of gold.

Only in the Golden Deer can anyone survive, only those under its flag have a chance at life; but how can she perform this great work, how can she perform this act of alchemy, and transform the lead of promised death into the gold of human lives? What is she to do? Walk up to them and say “you're going to die, come with me?”

She barely understands people, even though her wise students are teaching her those lessons. She is only now beginning to... to _feel... _but she remembers something her father told her once, after they had fought to save a village, and Byleth had felt... sadness... at seeing one of the dead, someone they had not been able to rescue, though most of the people lived.

“ Know that you can't save everybody,” her father had said, with the weight of his true age on him as he put a shoulder on his teenage daughter. “ But know this, too: you have to try.”

Byleth had been comforted by that, her thin thread of sorrow dissipating in her father's wisdom. Now, faced with this, she decides that he was right; she can't save everybody.

But she will still try.

( Byleth will wonder for a long time why none of her visions show her father in the future, until the day she understands why all too well.)

-

Thus, Byleth, once a mercenary, now a professor, takes up one last profession; she becomes a kingmaker, bearing a crown of antlers in her hands... bearing _life _in her hands, for all those that she so chooses to anoint will live.

It is a horrifying burden, to know that she is picking who will live and who will die. To be crowned with antlers is to be given the gift of life, and it is in Byleth's power to coronate; but she can only save so many.

( She prays that the others forgive her. She has done what she can. You can't save everybody, but you still have to try.)

She saves who she can. From the Eagles, she takes four- Linhardt first, for the war will hurt him the most, but then Dorothea, whose eyes are always haunted in her visions. Petra after her, Petra- and Goddess, there is so much _potential _inside Petra, she is almost terrified to be responsible for teaching her. Petra is something else, she is a Queen who will be worthy of her crown, and adding antlers to the greater circlet she will wear in the full of her power is a humbling experience. Kings and Queens does Byleth make, but Petra was always a Queen; Byleth simply adds onto her honors.

It is so frightening, to be responsible for helping this magnificent girl grow into the even greater woman she will be, to be near someone who has so much potential, who she must protect so that she can _reach _that potential... but Byleth's emotions are still fairly weak, so she steels up her spine and commits. Petra will live.

And last of all her recruits, to her own surprise, is Ferdinand, she draws the red nobleman from the Eagles. She had not sought him out at first... but every time she sees him in the future, this strange, foppish and foolish man turns out to be someone great, there is true greatness inside him, he is as big as he thinks he is on the inside. She had not wanted that greatness ruined... so she chose him, in hopes he would prove to be worthy.

Edelgard and Manuela do not fight her on these choices, as far as Byelth knows. Byleth doesn't know why, but also doesn't care; she is merely grateful for her acquiescence, takes in her new students with glee. Come, come, let me clip your wings, put new hooves on good solid ground, that you might survive when the Eagles fall burning from the sky.

The Lions are more loyal, as one might expect of a pride, but eventually she takes from the Kingdom the same number of lives- Mercedes first, and oh Goddess, _Mercedes_, who she spoke of her brother to. Mercedes, whom she keeps seeing- Mercedes, who she first saw at their wedding, and... and she shuts that away, the greater task must be done, she cannot bear to think of this woman whom she knows, in her unbeating heart, she could love all her days.

( When Mercedes chooses to love her anyway, Byleth will experience happiness so sharp it hurts, the best of all aches, that this cold, stoic, strange oracle might be loved.)

Annette after her, fleeing her father at last, then Ingrid, who had surprised her as well- but she saw Ingrid dying, she saw her falling in a field of history, and while Ingrid's ties to Dimitri and his quartet were strong, they were not so tough that Byleth could not hack them apart with the sharp edge of truth.

Her words had been cruel, and true, and they had consisted of this: “ Ingrid, no matter what you do, they will always think you are just playing at being a knight. They'll never truly believe you.”

Ingrid had slapped her... and enrolled in the Deer three days later.

( A bit of pain is a fine price for a human life; Byleth had forgiven Ingrid the instant she saw the papers requesting transfer.)

Ashe then, Ashe, who she had not meant to choose, who had chosen to come to her of his own free will; whose father she had tried to save. Ashe, who in her own way she thinks she likes best, because alone of all her choices did he come to her without prompt or prodding, entering her class only to pay his debt.

( She is a thing of legend, too, and so she sympathizes with Ashe and Ingrid both, though the books that hold the stories of her kind are scriptures and not chivalric novels.)

Dimitri is enraged by Ingrid's leaving, and Hanneman is annoyed, too. Byleth does not care. Come, come, to me, trade your claws for a crown of antlers, that you will be alive when the Lions are cornered and hunted down at last.

Eight. Only eight. A fistful of human lives, brought under the golden banner, her officer's class doubling in size with refugees- and refugees they are, fleeing from death they do not even know is coming. She has rescued eight from whatever is to come. All those she could cajole, convince, and corrupt, anything to get red and blue to turn to solid gold... to life.

It will have to be enough, her eight; the other Houses and their professors have complained about her relentless poaching, as Manuela is annoyed by it even as Edelgard cannot be moved to care, and both Hanneman and Dimitri are livid at her thefts of personnel.

Now she is banned from doing so, students can no longer transfer. Word of Lady Rhea herself, after a long night of arguing, one of the few times Rhea has ever truly balked Byleth. They think she is simply so popular that it is overwhelming the student body's common sense; they do not see what is coming, they do not sense whatever it is that Byleth almost knows about, when she sleeps, when she awakes in a cold sweat with visions of fur-coated men in eyepatches and horned emperors and fire and steel, swimming away from her mind in an ocean of blood.

Rhea bans her after that, at Hanneman's urging. She is sad, and does not like to stymie Byleth, but she will not let her take any others into her class.

Byleth must accept it, though she weeps in her sweet Mercedes' arms that night.

She has saved as many as she can. She prays that it is enough.

( That night, she has a dream, but different, a vision of a bearded man with a laugh as big as the sky, come from a foreign land to save the world, with the sun at his back and a crown of golden antlers atop his head. Perhaps chaos is choosing to take pity on her in her moment of distress; that's its nature, after all, to be unexpected, and she has certainly not expected kindness now.)

( It is kindness, because now she _knows _it was Claude, she _knows_ that the Deer was the right choice, before Rhea. The sun behind Claude is a new dawn that will change everything, the world will be _better _for this, if she can keep him alive. Should Claude take the throne, and win the war to come, the day will come that his dreams will change _everything_. It is a day she _must_ make come to pass; a burden on her, a sacred duty, something she owes the world, for reasons that predate her own birth that, as of yet, she does not understand... but something inside her does.)

-

She never asks Rhea why her shadow forms a dragon on the wall behind her, or why no one else ever sees it- or the way that Seteth and Flayn's shadows do the same thing, in her eyes.

-

Why are these books so familiar?

The holy texts are obviously... cropped, edited, pieces taken out and thrown away. There is a smell of burning books and ashes in the library, a smell that is mental more than real; an understanding that this library, supposedly a place of knowledge, is in truth a repository only of those things Rhea thinks its safe for others to know.

And yet... ghosting her hands over the words, her lips mumbling them softly... Byleth sees things. Not the future, but the past, some part of her anchored in ancient yesterdays.

Words of praise to the Goddess... and she remembers hearing them, ringing off the walls of a city that no longer exists. Words detailing the acts of God make her muscles ache with the memory. A hymn of praise, written as if from daughter to mother, causes a single tear to drip down Byleth's eye, in memory of children her body did not carry and that she did not create.

( This is the last secret in Garreg Mach, the one thing no one will ever know; Byleth figured it out before Sothis did. She was never able to tell the ghost her suspicions, but when time came and they stood in Zahras, Byleth understood _precisely_ what was going on.)

And when she summons her magic, when the light is in her hands... it feels... different. Heavier, than the magic of others, as though every word she spoke had a mountain behind it. Her faith is not like that of sweet Mercedes, faithful Marianne or gentle Dorothea's, nor even like practical Linhardt; they pray for their power. Byleth simply _commanded_, and it was done.

And Rhea was the one who'd taught it to her, to master this budding talent of light inside her that she'd never known she'd had... how? How had Rhea known? This wasn't how anyone Byleth had ever read about used the magic of faith...

Rhea's words... “ I know,” she had said, her shadow still a dragon behind her, “ that if I order something to be done, it is done. That is how you must treat your magic; say to the light “go”, and it shall go. Say to it “heal”, and it will heal. Trust me.”

...Why? What made Byleth so different, that light _obeyed_?

She will not _know_, for a long time, why the holy words feel nostalgic, why she feels maternal at hearing the name Seiros, why the names of the saints sound less like figures of ancient history and more like... people. As if they are ones whose names she has said before, as if she... she _knows _them.

All a surprise to her, atheist by accident, victim of Jeralt's silence (and why? Another thing she does not know; what has her father been hiding from her, all her days?)- but it is like a memory, these holy books, even as edited as they must be. Something in the faith holds a mirror up to her, and in between visions of the future, she sees... dreams, droplets of beautiful things, that happened long ago.

(A picnic, a family, kind eyes and adoring faces. A child. Was she a mother once? But she is so young and... and it is gone, when she awakes, she blinks the family that might have been out of her eyes along with the smallest of tears.)


	10. THE FUTURE: Of the Lives of Kings and Queens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it, folks. Holy shit, this has been fun to write; but all things must end. Every book has a final chapter.
> 
> Do not despair. Nothing ever really ends, not even stories.
> 
> Thank all of you for coming with me on this journey. I'm proud to have touched your hearts.

**THE FUTURE**

**Of the Lives of Kings and Queens**

When things are done, the Deer enact one last scheme.

It is Claude's greatest scheme, because it is not really a scheme at all- it is a dream. Claude's great dream, the thing he has worked for all his life, the goal that Edelgard interrupted with her war and, paradoxically, made a bit easier. The Alliance owns the whole of Fodlan, now, and the shakeup of society that Edelgard's war caused makes this task easier than it should be; thus Claude has a greater position of power from which to enact change. A bittersweet gift, given how many died to present it to him, but Claude will work with what he has.

It is not only Claude's position that is strengthened. Byleth is the Archbishop, ascending rapidly to true Godhood, Mercedes with her; Hilda takes the lead in Goneril now, becoming, finally, the woman Claude had always known her to be; she does not lead her house, that is Holst's job, but she is one of the strongest voices in it, and she travels the breadth of the Alliance, still Claude's right hand. Holst approves, heartily, and in time a letter finds Claude, giving him his blessing to marry his sister.

( A secret is this: Holst has always known Hilda had greatness in her, he has always believed in his little sister, and it is the knowledge that Claude sees that greatness, too, that spurs Holst to give this Almyran the right to his sister's hand... though as Hilda will joke later, she would have married her Claude anyway.)

Still, despite the power he now wields, Claude cannot stay; he must go back to Almyra, to be king of that foreign land, so that the dream can be made real. This is a two-way tunnel, and someone must be there to ensure that the eastern end remains open. He leaves the Alliance in Lorenz's capable hands, knowing that the good man of Gloucester will safeguard the dream.

The irony makes Lorenz laugh in his wife's arms that night; he is Grand Duke now, as he has always wanted to be, but not because he proved himself Claude's superior- but because Claude _is _his superior. Lorenz knows who it is that he works for, whose dream he serves, and even as Grand Duke, he keeps in mind his true leader. Claude leaves him with this: break the borders. Break the walls between human hearts.

Lorenz takes to the order with gusto.

Others settle in all the new Fodlan, their stories to be told, all serving Claude's dream, restoring nations as they go. Duscur's people are found and their homes restored, so that they can regrow as a culture; what is left of the slithering ones are hunted down and slain like the dogs they are.

All this, as Claude goes home, winner of a great war, with accolades of battle on his shoulders, and a crown of antlers on his head. He takes over with Nader's help, his parents seeing that his experiences in Fodlan have made a true king of him at last, and on his coronation he opens formal talks with the Alliance and Brigid both, the beginnings of his dream of a world without borders.

Almyra does not let him do so peacefully; it is a warrior culture, and Claude is challenging one of their most fundamental beliefs. He is attempting to make peace, and it rallies enemies to his throne, who claim his Fodlan heritage makes him weak, that he is a coward, and the war he won does not count- after all, it was a war in _Fodlan_, and everyone knows that there are no proper warriors in that land.

But the lie is put to the test, and falters before truth. When Claude's throne is threatened, aid comes eagerly from Fodlan; the Almyran Civil War, as it will be called in time, is decided in a matter of months, because when half of Almyra declares for his enemies, Claude sends word home. The Leceister Alliance, now big as a continent, does not forget that Claude led it to victory during its darkest and most desperate days. His faithful ones are eager to come, to save him, to protect him, and all the elite of Fodlan come: archdukes of Leceister and archbishops of the Church, queens in Brigid and great wizard-scholars of Garreg Mach, all know Claude as their great leader, and when he calls for their service again, they eagerly take up their old weapons.

( Even separated as they are now, the Deer are a Herd, and when one member is in danger, all will fight in their defense. Once crowned, _always _crowned.)

Thus it is that the Almyran lords who thought Claude and Fodlan soft are crushed utterly by an army in gold and brown that thunders down the Throat, Hilda at its head, Byleth right behind her, to fight for their Lord. Hilda in particular is alive in a way she has not been since Claude left Fodlan; she is his right hand once more, and no stronger fist has any king ever had. Claude's Fodlan knight is unstopabble in service to her Almyran king, and there are legends of her battles, of how she wrestled wyverns to the ground with her bare hands alone, of feats of strength even her Crest cannot fully explain.

Others impress the Almyrans, both those they fight and those they march alongside; a great blonde-haired giant, his quiet blue-haired wife with spears of ice in her hands, a girl whose hair is slowly growing out the white in it whose sword gleams with night's edge.

Even Brigid appears, a great navy sailing forth under the guidance of a great Queen, her scholar-husband beside her a mighty knight at her side, Brigid repaying its debt to the foreign lord who broke the chains of Adrestia and let it rise as a soverign land again.

In the face of such might, none in Almyra can claim cowardice on the part of Fodlan, and Claude's true strength is revealed in the love these volunteers hold for him. Claude's open hand is easily turned into a crushing fist, and his Almyran loyalists, with backup from Leceister and even distant Brigid, ruin the rebels; the enemies of freedom are silenced by surrender or execution, and the new world is allowed to grow in peace.

But only one nation goes forward; the others fade, dying, their names lost to history... only a footnote left of them.

**Adrestia's Paralogue:**

**A Dying Flower in the Hand of the Prodigal Son**

Ferdinand presides over his nation's death.

He had not expected to do so, but at a certain point, it became... inevitable. Adrestia's takeover was military, and the Alliance's counterpunch was an army, too; but the real deathblow for the former Empire was economics.

The exhausted lands of the South, with many noble Houses dead at Edelgard's own hand or killed in her war, had spent all they had in her great war. Worse, her alliance with the Slithering Ones had prompted rebellions among the commonfolk, who were the very people snatched up for experiments; an irony, that Edelgard's war to uplift the common people would do them such harm, but irony is so prevalent in what history will call the Second War of Heroes that Ferdinand is inured to it.

The peasant rebellions were rarely military- but they were very _often _in tax evasion, and so the monetary base of Adrestia had been collapsing out from under it. Had Edelgard won her war swiftly- if she had managed the knockout punch she tried at Garreg Mach, taken the nobility of the other two nations with it- it would not have mattered; but the war lasted five years, and towards the end the Empire's feet of clay were breaking underneath it.

Into this breach comes Leceister, and all its merchants. The Alliance's free commerce turns out to be the one thing the Empire cannot survive, after everything else has failed to slay the beast; the killer is not a dagger, but simple coin. The peasants, safe now from the fear of being snatched in the dark by Edelgard's allies, pay their taxes, and with so many noble houses dead, it is easy enough to raise many of the lower commonfolk to the rank of nobility; these folk, renewed, adopt Leceister's ways, and so red flags turn to gold for the prosperity they find under the Alliance.

Trouble these new Archdukes of Adrestia have, but- another poisonous irony- not from Edelgard's true believers. Her faithful- who are rare, most having died in the war- are pacified by the changes, by the noble councils that replace the Emperor and the Seven and break up all of Adrestia's terrible might. The world draws closer to a world without Crests or nobles, and maybe it gives Edelgard's ghost some peace- it certainly helps her followers, who see the new world the Deer are building, and find themselves content.

( The irony that aches: if she had just... talked, if they had just sat down, Edelgard would have found that she did not have to do it all alone, that the others agreed with her. Worlds exist where they did, Byleth will see in future years, worlds where they were able to sit down... but this is the world they have. In this one, Edelgard did not, and so she is ashes drifting in the verdant wind.)

The enemy in these times arise from the remnants of the Seven who rose against her father, who survive into this modern age. They rage against their loss of power and prestige; but the Alliance does not relent. No more will a single damaged seventeen-year-old have the power to throw all of Fodlan into chaos.

They do try, though,

-

Ferdinand dreams, often, of the war; but sometimes, he dreams of the days before it, days of blue skies and white clouds.

The night Byleth returns, he dreams of the innocent times of Garreg Mach, when he had spoken with Dorothea, and heard a riddle he could not solve.

“ I... must confess I do not understand your riddle,” Ferdinand said to her. She smirked.

“ Admitting defeat to a commoner? Surprising!” she announced dramatically.

“ I... do not know why you have such a low opinion of me,” Ferdinand replied, “ but I understand that you do. I won't ask for further clarification. I... would like to establish boundaries, however. I would not want my presence to trouble you.”

Another flicker in Dorothea's eyes, different from Hubert's- more a flicker of... worry?

“ Just... stay away from me,” Dorothea replied. “ Keep to yourself, and I'll keep to myself, and we'll both be happier. You wouldn't want a commoner underfoot, I'm sure.”

“ I don't know what that has to do with anything, but I will endeavor to keep distance,” Ferdinand answered.

He is true to his word; he makes sure that he is not near Dorothea as often as he can, maintaining the distance she asked for. Once or twice, he sees her frown when looking at him, but he's not sure what it means, and he keeps his eyes to himself.

He's not a bad man. He likes to think he's a good man. If he is asked to stay away, he will listen.

-

Ferdinand will find Dorothea drunk in his tent, one night, during the five years that they defend Leceister from Ferdinand's homeland, when all the glory of Ferdinand's house has been reduced to a great warband of scattered survivors fighting under a new flag, immigrants and refugees all at once.

Another village on the border had been burned, its people stolen to be turned into Demonic Beasts. It is perhaps the most horrifying thing Edelgard's forces do; she shoves her artificial magic into the chest of the innocent and pulls forth abomination. Ferdinand hates her for it; he hates her for so much, but this is the thing he thinks of, when he knows that there must now come a day in which Edelgard's head and her body must be severed. Nothing could _justify _this atrocity; be Edelgard's goals of purest good, be her heart hammered thin by pain, still it would not justify _this_.

Let her blame her allies for it all she likes; at day's end, she is the one who has let them off their leash. A ruler is responsible for their servant's actions, unless they take steps to correct them; and Edelgard not only lets the Agarthans do as they will, she encourages them.

Someday, Edelgard must die, and Ferdinand keeps that rage stoked in his heart, shield against a memory of better days, of the warmth of Hubert's hand in his own.

Still, those are thoughts of war and death. Right now, Ferdinand is simply tired after a long day searching, which finds no survivors save a single, impossibly lucky family whose root cellar was not found in the hunt. He is tired, and Dorothea has stolen his bed.

Ferdinand stares at her, a bit dumbfounded, looks at the nearly empty bottle dangling from her hand, as her long and beautiful form lays bunched up on his cot like some kind of stray dog.

“ Ferdie,” she chirped with a slur, waving a hand at him. “ Want to talk to you. I been... _I've _been... mean.”

“ Are you alright, Dorothea?” he asked, but kept his distance. “ Do you need me to get Linhardt?”

She giggled at the mention of her lover, rose up into a stagger. “ No, no... Lin's a sweetheart, buuuut this is _my _problem. Come closer, Ferdiiiiie.”

She motioned him over, patting his cot. He sat down on it next to her, tremendously confused. It's the closest he's allowed himself to be since she asked him to keep his distance.

“ I don't like drinking much,” Dorothea admitted to him. “ I... it numbs me but it also makes me so scared when I wake up, I'm afraid I've missed something and I'll die... death's all around us, isn't it, Ferdie? And the Leceister folk don't trust us, except our fellow Deer... can't blame 'em, though. Edie's set the world on fire and we used to have black wings...”

“ I know,” Ferdinand said with a sigh. Half his work these days was just representing his fellow former Eagles in council, using what money he managed to steal from his House's assets and his gathering of troops to make sure the Eagles aren't sent on suicide missions or, worse, accused of treason just by dint of their nation of birth. It helps that Claude trusts him, but it is hard, when the lilt of an Adrestian accent on his tongue sounds so much like the very people they are fighting.

Dorothea hiccuped gently, then leaned up and threw an arm around him. He froze.

“ You're... you're a good man, Ferdie,” she said, nuzzling her face into his shoulder. “ You're so careful with me... you said you'd keep your distance and you have... I'm sorry. I saw the boy you were, not the man you'd become... I forgive you.”

“ I still don't know why you dislike me,” he said, a bit discomfited. Dorothea stank of sweat and alcohol and that thin, acrid musk that humans drip when they are beyond terrified, that coats the skin like slime. The hug itself is... rather concerning. She's going to regret this mightily in the morning. “ But... I'm glad you have forgiven me for... whatever it is I did.”

She chuckled. “ I'm... I'm sorry,” she whispered into his arm. “ I know it's so stupid and it's such a small thing when all this death surrounds us, but I... I wanted you to know I like you, and I'm sorry, and I'd like to start again. I want to start again with _everything_, I want to have never been to Garreg Mach, and then I want to have gone to Garreg Mach and killed Edelgard the second I saw her.”

That feeling is one every former Eagle shares. They are Byleth's fanatics now, even with her dead all these years; they are the most loyal Deer, despite the assumptions of the Alliance. Byleth saved them from service to Edelgard, after all, and it is a debt they will never be able to repay her; Ferdinand, in particular, feels he owes his former professor. He would have been murdered as von Aegir's heir or, worse, he would _not _have, and he would have then been made party to all this atrocity. Byleth, in recruiting him, had saved his soul; it is why he is so devoted to Claude. It is the least he can do, to repay Byleth for her kindness.

And he is not as loyal as Linhardt; no, the green-haired healer is almost a zealot for the Alliance, he is so grateful not to have an ocean of blood dripping from his hands that he is willing to do anything they ask of him, commit to the most desperate struggles, if it will further the cause Byleth died for. For all his sleepiness, Linhardt is a hurricane when he wants to be, and there are hundreds of soldiers who can tell a story that ends with “and I would have died, but Linhardt healed me.”

Dorothea continued, despite his thoughts.

“ And then I want to start again and _save _her, there _has _to have been somewhere this could all have been stopped. Edie was... Edie was my friend, Ferdie. Just like Bernie and Caspie and... and even Hubie, they were all my friends. They all were... A-and I'm a really bad person at heart, you know, because sometimes I think if I _could _go back then I _wouldn't_. Even if I _knew _I could stop all this death.”

She shivered as she held him.

“ Because if I started changing things, who would that make me? I'm afraid if someone did change it then I'd never have found my faith or joined the Deer or found my Lin, and I love those things, I love them, I love the warm light in my hands and... and I love all of you guys, too. The way I used to love them, the way I still love them, a little. I love too much, Ferdinand, that's why the war hurts me like it does. Lindy's the same way, he's so gentle, Ferdie, he's so _gentle_, he loves as deeply as I do. A-and he loves me, he's a nobleman but somehow he thinks I'm more than just a jumped up street rat, Lin doesn't think I'm just some ugly broken toy, I feel all the time like I'm some pretty porcelain doll somebody's smashed up and glued together wrong but he doesn't see me that way, he thinks I'm worth so much...”

She was crying. Ferdinand put a hesitant hand up. “ Do you... want a hug?” he asked awkwardly. “ I... know you said keep your distance but you're kind of hugging me now...”

“ Hug me,” Dorothea begged, and he held her tight. She was warm in his arms... and still smelled bad, so he kept his nose aimed away from her, even as he gave the comforting pressure she sought. She giggled a bit as she cried.

“ Ferdie,” she said, “ you're so careful. Even asking me to make sure the hug's okay. You're a good man. You don't have to keep your distance. I'd like to get to know the man you are now. I'm... I have so few friends. I'd like to have another one.”

“ Absolutely,” Ferdinand said, then thinking of what she said, continued. “ And you're not... broken. Or smashed up. You're no toy. You're Dorothea. You're a person. The bravest I've ever met, in fact. This war hurts you so much and still you go forth... I'm in awe of you. You're incredible.”

Dorothea chuckled. “ Big Ferdie, in awe of little ol' me? I don't know what I'm doing here, I just see war and death every time I close my eyes... and you're in awe of me? That's... that's really nice, Ferdie.”

She leaned in closer. He hugged her tighter, her drawing something from that human contact.

“ Ferdie?”

“ Yes?”

“ Carry me to mine and Lin's tent, wouldn't you? I'm... I'm really drunk. I need a bath... I didn't plan to wander over here, but now I'm here and I don't remember where we put our tent up. I'm sorry for being drunk in your tent. You should pack me out before I puke.”

“ Please don't puke in my tent,” Ferdinand requested, and Dorothea's laughter was bright and clear.

He picked her up, felt the heavy fullness of her in his arms, curled up, and thought of proud Dorothea, _brave _Dorothea, so hurt that she was curling up in the arms of a man she hated. Dorothea, who inspired awe in him, because despite her nightmares and her trauma, she went to war anyway... Dorothea, less prepared than anyone, who still held her head up high.

He resolved then and there that he would go out of his way to support her, to be present with her as much as he could. With all the war had taken from her, it was up to someone to give _back _to her, and friendship was a fine and priceless gift.

He carried her to Lin, and put her down in her own bed. Lin had asked what they'd talked of, and Ferdinand had told him; Lin had nodded, and then asked Ferdinand to forgive her when she was sober and came to ask him for it.

But of course. Ferdinand had heard what Dorothea hadn't said; he was a good listener, if he was nothing else.

-

The next day, she apologizes for being drunk in his tent, and explains about their first meeting, which seems unreal to Ferdinand for two reasons- first, he'd convinced himself he'd dreamt about the singing water nymph, and secondly, he has seen so much horror and death at this point that the innocent wonder of a boy, so innocent that he thought he'd found a mystical creature, seems... impossible. How in the world could that have been him, once?

But still, an answer to one of the more irritating, if less pressing, questions of his life has been had, and he's glad for it. He will tell her the truth, that he thought her some magical water nymph, and she will laugh and explain her bee metaphor, which he will laugh about himself when she admits it was more than a bit convoluted.

They had both been rather dramatic teenagers, it seemed, and it was nice to have the mutual feeling of looking back on one's younger years with a sort of fond exasperation. They are only two years out from those days, but you can change in an instant, and the last two years have been so full of changing instants that they mutually feel like decades have passed.

They have grown old, despite their youth.

She says she believes him about the nymph story, and asks his forgiveness. He grants it- of course, to do any less would be a disservice, and Lin had asked it of him anyway, well knowing his girlfriend's habits- but Ferdinand does ask why she believes him.

Her smile had been bright as she explained. It had been his willingness to be circumspect- his respect for her boundaries, his concern that he might hurt her- that convinced her, that told her that, even if he had been a bastard as a child, he might have grown into a good man, and when he told her the truth, she knew that she had misjudged him.

He will nod, and smile, and invite her to tea. He stays with her as often as he can, and realizes how little Dorothea has to do around camp, at times- distrusted by most of Leceister, and with no troops or finances to manage like the other three Black Eagles- and so he recruits her to work as a semi-retainer for him. Work is not a sure cure for anything, but busy hands can help distract an aching soul.

They become friends, and Ferdinand helps support her during her worst days, understanding when she cannot work for the sounds of death in her heart. He prays with her, her faith her succor in these times of danger, and they become friends.

The idealists are right about this much; friends make everything easier.

( It is a little closure in a life of untended wants, and he clings to it.)

-

Dorothea is not wrong; sometimes, Ferdinand will wonder if he could have done anything different, too.

Often during those five years, as Edelgard becomes mother of abomination, as Byleth lies dead, Dimitri wanders mad, and Claude must hold the Alliance together, Ferdinand will wonder where he might have saved his Emperor. Alone of the Black Eagles, he feels like he might have had a realistic chance of... doing something. Dorothea may feel guilt because, entirely despite herself, Dorothea is a great person and loves everyone; but she had been an opera star and poor.

Ferdinand, though, he'd had money and nobility, he might actually have had, at one point, the power to change things... He might have had some leverage that could have spared Fodlan all this war, though he cannot see where the fulcrum was, for him to move Edelgard so far.

Perhaps there was another way. Perhaps there is a world out there where he figured it out, where him and whoever else was necessary to work that great alchemy turned the lead of Edelgard's soul into sacred gold, and make a better future. Perhaps there is a world where Edelgard has her Byleth, where all the horrors of the Flame Emperor have been erased or redeemed, and the monstrosities inflicted on Edelgard are repaid on her tormentors, and she is at peace.

Perhaps there is a Fodlan, somewhere in all the great gaps of time and space, where the three nations exist at peace with each other, and Edelgard's name will not become a byword for tyranny and foolishness, where future generations will not look back on the last Emperor of Adrestia and speak of the dangers of dealing with devils, of the way that good intentions can lead one to hell and ruin. In that Foldan, Hubert's hand would be warm in Ferdinand's own, and he would never need to cast off his wings, the red and black a badge of honor and not the mark of an Empire's barbaric dreams of conquest.

Perhaps.

But this is the world he lives in, and try as he might, he cannot see where Edelgard might have been turned from her path.

All he can see is how he has turned and turned from the path his nobility would have him walk, how he makes his own path now with the advice of others, and he is grateful that he, at least, has wisdom enough to listen, when others speak to him.

His hair grows long, in the pondering, and while it began as a simple mistake, he finds he likes it; it is free, the way he is now.

He's a Golden Deer, isn't he? Breaking boundaries is what they do.

-

A simple truth finally hits him, as the war begins to reach its end, as a fort collapses into brilliant, deadly light and the way forward becomes clear- as it becomes clear that, perhaps, there _is _a way forward at all, that they might yet live to make it to the end of the path.

He has known this truth for years, but only now does he let himself know he knows it, and it is this: he cannot be an Adrestian noble and consort of the Queen of Brigid both.

The people of Brigid would never stomach it, not after their forceful takeover. Being an Adrestian at all might be an insurmountable barrier, but to be an Adrestian _noble_ definitely is.

The problem is not entirely beyond him, his goal not entirely out of reach. He is also a Golden Deer, and he knows how highly they are valued in Brigid, who remembers that they came to save them from Hubert's invasion force, that Brigid's rebellion against its overlords is supplied and supported by merchant ships of the Alliance, that their very Queen serves under that holy flag.

So it is not impossible that they might accept him... but he must cut his ties with Adrestia, he must work to be a man of Brigid, and not one of their overlords. He can be a Queen's consort in Brigid or a noble of Adrestia, but not both.

He has prepared all his life to be a noble... and he has people and duties here, but... in the new world they are making, that means less, and while Petra does not need him, he thinks he needs _her_.

If she's amenable- if she would still love him... but she is a Queen. Surely she will not marry him, not an Adrestian, whose country has made a vassal of her own.

He would be giving up a future he has held in his heart all his life for this...

But if she would have him, it would be worth it. Seeing what Adrestia has done, knowing what his father was party to- the terrible things done to Edelgard and to the peasantry, the Demonic Beasts that were once just people, the horrors Edelgard has inflicted on the world in her war- he is not sure, Petra or not, that he could be part of it anyway; and has not change defined him ever since he joined the Deer? If this House be of chaos, then no one in it defines the power to change like he does- highest of Imperial nobles, who comes here to be lowborn commoner of the Alliance, who grows and changes.

Irony of ironies, he has fallen from the top of the heap to the bottom, and he thinks it might be the best thing that has ever happened to him, this series of changes that has, at the end, taken a foolish teenage noble and made a wise and good common man out of him.

He must pray on this.

So the night finds him praying before the rubble that once held a holy icon.

He prays, and he meditates, and lets the thoughts filter through him, opens his mind to receive instruction.

A bit silly, perhaps. Few Deers pray; but those that do are most fervent and faithful, he finds. He expects that, after so long in the land of chaos; with this house of outcasts, this holy place of the sacred blasphemy, where most have no faith at all, what faith you _would_ find must be only the finest, the most faithful in this atheist house.

And does it not fit? The Alliance is so aligned with the forces of chaos and entropy, this strange land of merchants and nobles and commoners so jumbled up, that each of its pieces is capable of turning into any other piece, commoners rising up and nobles falling and merchants all over the place. If this House and country be aligned against order, then he is glad for it; perhaps the only route to freedom that lasts is making sure everyone is free. Perhaps all the thoughts of all the world's churches have been wrong, all these long years, when they call on the Goddess to maintain order; he thinks now, after all his observations, that if the Goddess has a side, that side is blessed chaos, not oppressive order.

( And so does Ferdinand come to the revelation a mercenary once came to, as he stared across a field of battle with a Goddess at his side, in whose voice was freedom and love, and fought the stone-eyed servants of a Goddess of order, in whose voice was only the death of hope.)

Many words did Adrestia waste dictating how holy and perfect the hierarchy of society was, but Byleth, who alone in all the world can say what is holy and what is blasphemy, stands not with the Eagle that flies above the earth and lords over all, or even the predatory Lion that must kill to live, but with the Deer, who walk the earth and eat mere grass, and are content.

As he prays, Ferdinand has a moment of sudden revelation, the kind that the truly religious sometimes have, either gift of heaven or simply their devoted brains coming to understand wisdom- he knows why, now, why the Deer's colors are gold and brown, and why that _matters_, why that is so important. Blue and silver for Faerghus, which is cold and dead; red and black for Adrestia, for the fire and ash it leaves in its wake.

But brown and gold for Leceister, because brown is the color of the earth, the simple, humble, commonplace _dirt... _which was not so humble or simple or commonplace at all, because from the good earth came all the verdant plantlife that fed the world, from the good earth came shining gold, that all people loved so much, from the most dismissed and overlooked substance on the planet comes all the things that let life _exist_ on that planet. Brown is the most important color in the world, for the dirt, so despised, is the only reason _anything _exists, and so it is paired with gold, that the human mind associate the precious with the commonplace.

Just like the Alliance, red-headed stepchild of Fodlan, last and least of its nations, has arisen to become... _this_, this relentless avalanche, this verdant wind, that stands poised to sweep the Empire off the face of the planet and grow an entire new world from the continent. What else can he call this but the Goddess' plan? This land of brown and gold has been blessed, was holy, had been judged by the Goddess and not found wanting in her eyes, despite its smallness and weakness and chaotic nature, and Ferdinand is simply grateful that the Goddess thought him worthy to be here, that when she gazed upon him, she found something in him that would ensure he go down in history not an Imperial monster but an Allied liberator.

Leceister, which had never mattered before, will win this war, Ferdinand suddenly knows with terrible and perfect conviction. The last shall be first, someone had written once in holy tongue... fire died, ice melted, but the earth and the wind will outlast even time itself, one day.

With that understanding in mind- knowing that he must answer to the future, that he must have an answer to _have _a future- he makes his choice. He is terrified, to change again, to change this dream of his... but be all his sins remembered, Ferdinand has _never _been a coward, is, in his own way, the bravest of all the Deer, save Dorothea herself, whose mind is a cemetery of screams and who goes forth to war anyway, every battle a graveyard shift in her soul.

In hopes of achieving the impossible, of changing himself one last time, he goes to Petra, one night at Garreg Mach, and knocks gently on her door.

-

“ Petra? I... we need to talk.”

He's speaking in Brigid, flawless as a native after all these years fighting alongside Petra, loving her, caring for her. Her eyes are worried as they sit down; Ferdinand doesn't speak her language lightly.

“ I've been thinking about... when the war is over. What I want to do, when we win.”

Neither of them say that it's not certain they _will _win. Petra, at least, thinks the war is still in contest; but Ferdinand does not. He knows that their victory is coming.

But you don't say that kind of thing out loud.

“ What will you do, Petra?”

She shrugs.

“ Return to Brigid as Queen, and reign over my people. Remove all the things of Adrestia before they have time to sink in, establish a pact with the Alliance for my people's mutual benefit, and probably fight at least one war with Dagda, who will surely see the end of this war as a good opportunity to try to invade us again.”

The answer rolls off her lips easily and well. Of course she's been thinking about these things, as much as he has; no noble he has ever met has been so worthy of the title as Petra, save perhaps Claude, and between the two of them, Ferdinand would not dare choose who was more worthy. It would be to compare treasure to treasure.

“ I...”

He pauses, swallows. He has to say it now, he has to say it, and hear her answer, yes or no. The dream lives or dies on her next few words... but he has never been a coward, and so his voice does not shake when he puts his courage to the sticking place.

“ I... I want to go with you. I want to marry you. I will give up all my titles in Adrestia, and join you, if you will have me. Will you marry me?”

He looks her in the face, sees the immediate concern there- this has been fun, but an illicit relationship is far different from what Ferdinand is suggesting. Marriage is... a powerful step, for them...

He sees that look, but he says nothing. It is out of his hands now. To the Goddess he commends his spirit and his hopes, but to Petra he commends his future, and no one else can make that decision but her.

“ Are you truly willing to give up all claim to Adrestia?” Petra asked, swallowing hard against the knowledge that Ferdinand had weighed his birthright and her in the balance, and found her more precious, that in Ferdinand's eyes she was worth more than the name he was so proud of.

He nods his head. Even if she says no, this will still be true: he would give it up, for her.

She thought. He can almost trace the argument inside her skull, watching her face- and has he ever known anyone like he knows her? Each wrinkle, each crease, he knows the way of her so well.

_Brigid will not accept an Adrestian noble as a king..._ Petra thought... but then she thought of what he was willing to give up, what he thought she was worth, and she grew determined to find a way to put the camel through the eye of the needle, to thread this gap between cultures and peoples. _He will be no noble... and it might accept a Golden Deer... but there are nobles in Brigid too, my reign will be easier if I marry one of them. _

_ Do I even _want _to marry him?... do I love him? I... I think I do. He has given up this for me, and he has always impressed me so much with his wisdom and his way. I... I think I might have the chance to marry for love, the way few royals do... I could sell the entire marriage as a way to maintain Allied relations... it could... work.._

“ Yes,” Petra said, softly, and Ferdinand's heart leapt in his chest.

( They hold each other tight, crushing each other against muscles worn hard by battle, knowing that there will be softness in the future.)

-

He will realize, one day, when what Byleth is becomes known to him, that not only was he _literally _correct when he said the Goddess chose the Golden Deer and the Leceister Alliance, but that Byleth chose to spare him.

He does not wonder if his teacher had known the truth; he _knows _she did. His faith is strong, and Byleth is not, at day's end, truly just Byleth, as revelation will eventually teach them all. Some piece of Byleth _knew _what was coming, and chose him- Ferdinand von Aegir, Adrestian noble- to try and save from all this. Ferdinand knows that, knows that of all the Eagles, Byleth had decided that four alone were worth saving, and one of those four would prove to be Ferdinand, of all people, despite his noble birth. Ferdinand, who Byleth judged as one who might listen, and in listening, change, and turn away from evil.

When she approached him, she was holding out her hand, not to transfer him to a new House, but to save his life; and wonder of wonders, he had _listened_, and it had saved him, as listening always has. He had made a choice, and Byleth had thought him worthy of _making _that choice; the Goddess Herself in Byleth had chosen him to choose, and he had passed her test with flying colors, all without ever knowing what the test had been until all these years later.

He is beyond grateful for it. She could only save so many, and to be chosen as one of those few, to be seen as worthy of being offered salvation, is a glorious burden he will spend his life to be worthy of. He will be the best consort Brigid has ever seen, he will devote himself to his new land, make a home there, be the immigrant king the people deserve, and prove Byleth wise in saving him, all those years ago.

He wonders what she saw in him, and in all the others that she dragged into the Golden Deer, those she has saved and spared from death; wonders, but knowing he will likely never know, decides to simply be grateful that she saw something worthwhile in him.

He prays for her, that night, thanks her for giving him a chance to save himself, and prays that she find her own peace, that Byleth be rewarded for all her kindness and good deeds and find happiness.

( Byleth hears that prayer, the way she hears all prayers, and she must admit she is touched; so many people pray to the Goddess for_ things_, but Ferdinand alone in all the world has ever prayed _for _the Goddess, and it is a sweet treasure she keeps inside herself.)

-

He will stand before Edelgard, at the last. When the Golden Deer mount the last offense, when the great stag of the east must protect itself and turn its horns against the most fortified nest in the south, Ferdinand is there, in the heart and in the thick of it, ensuring that his former co-nationals are not oppressed or harmed, that this war is fought as clean as duty and honor and human will can make it. War is a thing of ugliness, as Dorothea will always remind them, their mighty and wounded warrior, but beauty can be drawn from it; it can be done better or worse, even if there will always be something terrible about it.

He presides over his nation's death, and he ensures it as peaceful as it can be... but there is little peace to be had here, for this is _war_.

Hubert will die in the streets of Enbarr, gifting them with one last letter that will change the world; Hubert, who dies in agony, who dies alone, the way all of his fellow Black Eagles do, those who stayed caged in the nest of Edelgard's dream, and did not break free to roost in golden antlers.

There is not one of them spared. Bernadette, who was shy and sweet, who planted flowers on Jeralt's grave out of kindness, burned to death at Edelgard's command when Gronder Field had, once again, played host to true warfare and not schoolyard play. Caspar died burning, too, in the terrible cataclysm of the Javelin of Light, that the Deer were spared only because the Death Knight saw his sister in their ranks and could not bring himself to let her die.

It had been the last gasp of the boy named Emile in the man named Jeritza and the beast titled the Death Knight, and another victory for irony- the most bloodthirsty of their foes had been the only one to ever show them mercy.

Hubert died with Petra's blade in his throat, her private revenge for his attempted assault on Brigid, but for all that a sword ended his life, he was burning, too; burning in a fire named Edelgard, a fire spilling from her skull, a fire that was her great and awful dream of Fodlan beneath her feet... a fire that, in the end, consumed her too.

Ferdinand stands before her as those flames begin to consume her, as her face is splattered with Dedue's blood... and what an image, it will haunt him forever. Her eyes so cold, but her body soaked in blood- has any image ever summarized Edelgard so well? She does not even look at the corpses she makes.

In that throneroom, holding off one of her last guards so that Byleth and Lysithea can make an ending of it, he throws off the shackle of Edelgard's glory, he stands before her and he is no longer ashamed. His wild hair dances in the wind that blows in through the broken windows of the castle, his spear and his spells strike true, and he sees her as she truly is at last, bloodstained and brutal, but- and this is the thing that matters, this is the sticking point- so _brittle,_ too.

Brittle, was mighty Eedelgard, so obsessed with the path she chose that she could not consider other paths, who had to be in control all the time, and thus, now, was doomed to lose all control.

It is the difference between them, the only _real _difference, and it is the reason why, for all her terrible strength, she will die alone and burning, the same way all her Eagles died; why, at war's end, Edelgard will be but a corpse burned to ashes by Linhardt, and Ferdinand will be king in a foreign land.

Edelgard could not, would not, _change_.

It's such a simple difference, but the understanding grants him strength to win, killing her guards, and he is there when the last confrontation takes place, Byleth finally striking Edelgard down. He is the only Adrestian present when Byleth does Edelgard the honor of granting her a quick death, acknowledgment of desires never to be granted, desires that, in Byleth, are wrapped up in a former Lion, though Edelgard's last words will haunt him for years to come.

He is glad he is present. It is appropriate, that it should be him, Edelgard's opposite, who once defined himself as her rival, and has spent these five years fighting her, and changing, the one great act she could not do. He is Adrestia's future, as she sought to recreate the Empire's past; Edelgard and the old Empire are burned away, but Ferdinand and the new Adrestia are alive, to join in Leceister's Alliance and greet the future.

It is even more appropriate that it not be his hand that kills her. They are not opposites because he follows the Deer and she leads the Eagles; they are not opposites because he and the Alliance rise to take all Fodlan at a go, while she and the Empire fall apart piece by piece. They are not opposites because he can beat her in a fight; Edelgard has proven, since day one, to be his absolute superior in battle, and had he fought her here, he would have died.

No, they are opposites because, at day's end, Ferdinand had the strength to listen, and to _change_. Lacking Edelgard's physical and magical power- which he saw on full display at her last battle, Edelgard was so mighty- he has nonetheless proven to have greater strength on the inside, in his heart and in his soul, where it turns out, against the fears of cynics and above the wildest hopes of idealists, to matter most, in the end.

Ferdinand had the strength in him that, when he loved a foreign woman, he could change his future plans to accommodate that love. Ferdinand had strength in him that, when the many diverse folk of Garreg Mach talked, he could _listen; _he could pay attention to these Golden Deer, who were common folk in comparison to him, even their nobles, pedigree not half so high. Ferdinand had strength enough to realize that there is no such thing as common folk, that to say of a group that they are “just people” is to lie with two words, for they have all taught him so much, so very, very much.

He was stronger than Edelgard. Edelgard, who loved Byleth, but did not let that love change her in any way. Edelgard, who had met the same people Ferdinand did at Garreg Mach, had the same opportunities to be different, to take off the mask of the Flame Emperor and choose a better way... but who never listened. Edelgard, who for all her angst over it, for all her sorrows, stayed on her path despite every chance to turn back. Edelgard the mighty... who, in the end, was not mighty enough to do the right thing. She did not have the strength to _change_.

Ferdinand could. Ferdinand _did_.

And so at the end of all things, Ferdinand is alive, and Edelgard is dead, and he is triumphant over her at last.

-

He agrees to a supervisory position, to last for one year- a transition, a temporary Archduke over Adrestian lands. Lorenz's idea, until they can find trustworthy folk to put in these places; Ferdinand's familiarity with it makes him a good choice, and it gives him and Petra time to figure out how to sell their upcoming marriage to her people. He works diligently at the task, the last he will perform in his childhood home, before he moves on to

One day, seven months in, he is approached by a messenger of the Seven.

“ Adrestia needs an Emperor.”

He nods his head. How familiar this all is; of course these remnants of Adrestia would seek to revive it. Of course they dislike the new things Lorenz and the Alliance are doing, of course they seek to return to the old ways. No matter that Claude has brought a new dawn to Fodlan, that the common folk live easier lives and all things are turning out better with the wondrous gifts of the world Claude brings to them; those who had ruled in darker days despise the new light, and would push it all away, restart the ages of discrimination and damnation, so that they might yet be richer still.

It is not a surprise that this is happening. He was just surprised it had taken them seven months to approach him. He has been expecting these men to come to him with a plan of treachery on their lips, and a crown in their hands they would offer him, for a price.

The head of House Varley is the ringleader, Ferdinand will discover, and he is not surprised.Ferdinand wonders if Varley knows how well his daughter died, how she defended the hill at Gronder to the last: even as she burned at Edelgard's command, she fired her ballista one last time, and put down a pegasus knight of Faerghus, still serving the very Emperor who killed her until the end.

He wonders if he ever read Bernadetta's journal, that they found afterwards in Edelgard's personal things, her way of remembering those who died in her service; Edelgard was not unfeeling, that is perhaps the horror and tragedy of the Emperor, that despite all she did, she was not without sentiment or love. She had kept Bernadetta's things, she had kept _all _of their things, and her room had been a graveyard for her faithful Black Eagles, her tribute to them, a shrine for those she had loved.

He wonders if Bernadetta's father knew of her faith in Edelgard, of how she could not believe that Edelgard put so much faith in her, of how desperately she wanted to prove worthy of it, all things her journal revealed.

He wonders if this vile man knows that Edelgard hated herself for burning her faithful archer at Gronder, that Edelgard had kept no personal journal of her own but had annotated Bernadetta's as her own form of regret and remembrance, and that the last page said in Edelgard's shaking hand _I am sorry, Bernadette. I am sorry for all of you, I wasted your lives and I have nothing to show for it. I pray Claude can make a better world of all this- I... I pray. The first time I have prayed in so long... but I have been wrong about everything else, why not this, too? Goddess, if you exist, please- take their sins and put them on my back. Do not punish my faithful ones for having faith in me, and for my failure to live up to that faith. Punish me, and let them go on to whatever reward awaits the faithful._

And beneath that prayer, two words that summarized... everything.

_ I'm sorry_

He wonders if the man knows that they buried Bernadetta's ashes, that when the fire finally died down, they gathered them to bring back home to Garreg Mach; Ferdinand, Linhardt, Dorothea and Petra made sure to bury her, the way that they have buried something for each of the Black Eagles, the former Black Eagles making the last roosts their once-comrades and friends would ever know in the place where they met. There are unmarked graves decorated only with the image of a black feather in Garreg Mach now, sitting under an ancient Adrestian Gray Oak, their tribute to the dead.

Even Edelgard gets her due, despite everything; Linhardt burns Edelgard's corpse to ashes and then melts the ashes in acid, to make sure the Agarthans cannot use their biological weapon again, but the former Black Eagles buried Bernadette's annotated journal- the closest thing to Edelgard's true self left in all the world- at Garreg Mach, their tribute to the schoolgirl she had wanted to live as, and had never been allowed to be.

He does not have to wonder if the man would care about any of these things; he knows he does not.

He agrees to their terms, quibbling only enough that they believe him when he accepts.

When the men leave, he writes a letter to Lorenz, and in two day's time, Byleth and the entire Alliance fall on top of the conspirators and their forces, alongside Ferdinand himself, who personally hangs the head of House Varley. His little revenge, for the one who was, once upon a time, his destined wife, and a fellow Black Eagle.

The only crown he will ever wear is made of antlers; he will bear no Adrestian circlet.

-

Time comes that he gives up his regency to others. One year he had promised Lorenz, and one year did Lorenz get; it is time to go home. Let Fodlan care for itself; his destiny lies to the west, to lands in the setting sun, amidst purple hair and brown skin and sunlit seas.

The boat that takes him there is a recommissioned vessel of the old Adrestian navy, the Adrestian coat of arms roughly slapped off its side with paint and scrubbers and an Alliance flag put in its place; appropriate, Ferdinand thinks, the boat is just like him. It, too, has turned its fortunes around and found a new home.

His passage is quiet, his arrival more so. He is no noble, after all; just a man old before his time, who hopes that love will make him young again. He had sent a letter ahead, but no one greets him at the docks; Petra is busy, and the letter, he will find out later, had been delayed.

He is thus able to give her a sweet surprise, as he walks into her throne room, humble as any other petitioner. Her reaction is a surprised, delighted gasp, a sweet sound he will treasure all his life- the same way he will treasure how she abandoned all decorum, rising from her throne to run to him on light feet and leap into his arms, holding tight the man who she would take for her husband in a ceremony conducted two months later.

He leaves his hair long, that no crown will ever fit his head, and he is at peace in his new home.

-

Ferdinand has a dream, on his last night in Adrestia, a year and a day after Edelgard's death. He dreams of Garreg Mach; he is standing before the tree that he and his fellow Adrestian refugees buried their former comrades under. He is made of gold, and he has great and heavy hooves for feet, and knows from the weight of his head that a set of stag's antlers rise impossibly tall above his head, forming the one crown that has ever fit him; and on his back are the painful remnants of a pair of sheared wings, the feathers deep black, cut off by the ragged edge of a sword made of the bones of a Goddess.

Each step he takes causes flowers to bloom, flowers on which are written the names of every person in Fodlan who is alive because the Deer won, because the Deer destroyed Shambhala and Enbarr and all the dreams of the Agarthans and Edelgard both. The list is a roll of honor that goes on forever, as those people give birth to more people, all of whom owe their lives to him and his compatriots, what they have done has changed the world _forever_. They have conquered all eternity.

Before him are the Black Eagles who died, beside the tree they were buried under, looking as they did when they died, though each has white skin made of ashes and great black wings, as though they were burned in some impossibly hot fire and emerged crumbling even as they cooled, angel wings burned to ash. Bernadette sits next to Hubert, leaning her head on him, in the shade of their tree; Hubert returns it fondly, nuzzling her purple hair. Caspar leans against it, contemplating something, an odd look on his aggressive face; Ferdinand wonders who he thinks of, wonders if it is Linhardt with his wife, somewhere in Adrestia, that Caspar ponders.

Edelgard has her back turned to him, at first, standing facing her Eagles- but she turns as he arrives, her hair billowing in the wind, the long hair she had once worn and not the curled horns she would, in time, adopt as her own private joke about her relationship with the Church. Death had, it seemed, settled any problems she had left with the Goddess, and her hair was long and free again.

Perhaps the Goddess had judged that Edelgard's life was punishment enough for any sin, and so, in death, had let her go free. There must be a balance to things; perhaps Edelgard's pain, and worse, the fact that it was allowed to happen at all, had to be answered for, perhaps the war was Fodlan's punishment as a whole for letting the Agarthans exist.

Or perhaps the Goddess simply chose to have mercy on a most tortured soul, as so many pray she will have on them.

( And that is the truth of it; Byleth simply decided to be kind. Edelgard had done terrible things; but there must be an end to suffering, at some point, and so Byleth sets her free, to wander Fodlan forever, content to see the new world that is so close to what she had hoped to make.)

She looks at him, and the other Eagles turn to see him too, and there are _smiles _on their faces, they smile at him, and wave. Edelgard's smile is melancholic, Bernadette's shy, Caspar's surprisingly open- even death has not dimmed his brilliant flame, though Ferdinand wonders if some of that is simply because the Golden Deer didn't kill him, the Javelin of Light did- and Hubert's... wistful, he smiles at Ferdinand in recognition of what might have been.

There are tears in Ferdinand's eyes, he is weeping melted gold, as he sees these people, whom he once called friend. That, even as the war wound down, he only hoped, desperately, would _stop_, would let him _save _them.

He waves back, after a moment, blinking the tears from his eyes. They smile again, and then they begin to leave, and even though he tries to run to them, he cannot, there is a barrier there, between him and them. It is something invisible in the air that is impossibly strong, and he knows what it is; it is a choice, it is his _very own choice_, made all those years ago. Not the choice to follow Byleth, but the choice to _continue _serving her, to stay with the Alliance and serve Claude and Byleth and Petra, his lords. The Goddess had chosen him to choose; and now, having chosen life, he cannot follow those who chose death.

They see him try, though, and they give him another sad smile before they begin to leave, taking of with their black wings into the air... Bernadette first, always the most likely to run, Caspar following after her with a laugh. They fly up and wait, hovering, as the other half of their dead flock seek to make last amends with the living.

Edelgard gives him a bow, acknowledging him as her superior at last. Ferdinand returns a much deeper bow, because there should not be superior or inferior between him and her, not after everything. Knowing all he does now, he is disgusted with his former self, who had not seen the suffering in Edelgard's eyes, who had viewed her as just a mighty metric to measure his soul against.

“ I only wish I could have saved you,” he says, and in the still air, his words turn into images of a living Edelgard, of himself and Hubert at the altar, of a world where Edelgard and Dimitri and Claude could have been friends and lords together. Of a world where Edelgard could have been happy, where all the horror of the last six years could have gone away, where Adrestian flags still fly in the air alongside Faerghus and Leceister, and all the history of their nation might not have burned in the flames of Edelgard's rage.

Edelgard's smile widens at the honesty in that, and she closes her eyes.

“ I wish I could have been saved,” she says softly to him, and her words turn into images of her last years, of Edelgard mourning the deaths of her Eagles, of Edelgard before Byleth, love on her lips for the woman who bore her death, of Edelgard the abused child, whose pain had turned into a fire so hot it consumed all Fodlan.

She goes, after that, chasing Bernadette and Caspar, who wait for her to take the lead of their flock, where she always belonged. Where, perhaps, she might still be, in a world where she was luckier, where her abuse did not convince her that she could only achieve her dreams by force, where someone had saved her, or where she made a different choice, or... or any number of other things.

This is the world they have, though, and so she leads only her loyal dead, who prove loyal _beyond _death, who have chosen to accompany her on her long flight.

Hubert is the last, and he blows Ferdinand a kiss before he goes, a kiss Ferdinand receives with a smile. He takes off, following Edelgard, as he was always going to, and when he catches up they fly away, into the sunlight, burning up as they go.

Ferdinand awakes in his bed with soft tears on his face, not the indelicate sobs of terrible grief, but the dignified weeping that acknowledges the truly great sorrows; and it heals something in him. It is almost certainly just a dream, something his mind coughed up to ease his guilt; but still it heals him, a little, and he chooses not to examine it too deeply.

(The other Black Eagles have the same dream, though it is Caspar who is wistful in Linhardt's dream, and Hubert bows to Petra, apologizing for his attack on Brigid. Petra forgives him, and so it is with a lighter heart that Hubert leaves her. None of the once-Eagles will ever tell the others about that night, or the dream they shared; and Byleth will fail to mention to them that, in the tree beneath which they buried their former comrades, eagles nest, every year, and raise little chicks above those peaceful graves.)

**Faerghus' Paralogue:**

**Setting Moons and Rising Legends**

The thing that hurts Ashe and all his fellow Lions is this: they are oahtbreakers. It is a thing they know instinctively, and it haunts them, all their lives.

They are not, precisely, angry with Byleth over it; they made a choice, and that choice has saved their lives. But at the same time, Faerghus puts such emphasis, such... faith, in loyalty, in keeping one's word, that to abandon the Lions for the Deer has the unbearable feel of _sin _to them.

Even Mercedes, who cares the least, who alone of them has no real care for her nobility or country, has nights where she thinks to herself, _I am an oathbreaker._

They are not like the Eagles.

Even Lindhardt holds that kindness closest to his chest; ever a healer has the green-haired man been, has desired no blood on his hands, and in convincing him to join the Alliance Byleth has kept him from being responsible for the ocean of blood Edelgard has spilled. It is why Lindhard is so fiercely devoted to her, so loyal; the only blood on his hands comes from self-defense, and he is able to live with that, he is not haunted by legions of the innocent dead, as he would be were he to work for Adrestia. Challenging or harming Byleth is the only thing that truly makes him mad, anymore, and he is not alone in those feelings; all the Eagles share them, to some degree.

Byleth had made traitors out of all of them, but to betray a monstrous cause is a sacred thing, to be a traitor to evil is to an act of greatest good. It is to choose honor over nationality, to pick humanity over country, and it is a victory for each of them that their descendants will honor them for down the long ages of history. Byleth's outstretched hand pulled them up from sin and evil to do good, and there is no former Eagle that is not grateful for it; in the Deer, the once-Eagles are, perversely, the most Deer of them all, the most loyal, the most fanatical towards Byleth, their savior.

But the Lions are not traitors to abomination, but merely traitors; they walked away from their home. There is not one of them that will not, in later years, wonder if they could have saved Dimitri from himself; there is not one of them who, upon hearing from tearful Hilda the story of his death, will not wonder if their presence would have changed things. None of them are free of this singular nightmare: _I could have saved Faerghus._

Not every night. But at least one night, every year, there will be this idea; that Faerghus might have lived, if I had stayed.

If.

-

Ingrid's home knows they are traitors, too. Faerghus hates Leceister less than it hates Adrestia, but they are a proud people in the former Kingdom, and their collapse has hurt them worse than it did the Imperials. The Empire, towards the end, was a land in which innocent victims were snatched up to become Demonic Beasts, in which more and more conscripts were pulled from the towns and villages to fuel Edelgard's endless war; it was not only people of Faerghus and the Alliance that called Edelgard the Beast of Enbarr.

Ashe is aware that others of the Deer hold Edelgard to be more complicated than that, but he sees the truth; at day's end, all these dead of the last six years can be laid at her feet, and no good could wash away all that evil. A person is a complicated thing, but the stacked dead of three nations weigh heavy enough on the scales to break them, no matter the complications.

The stacked dead of three nations weighs so heavy, in fact, that only the Leceister Alliance can bear the weight; the other nations collapse. Faerghus they do not mean to take over, but the nation is so crippled by Dimitri's last, crazed policies that the entire edifice must fall. Faerghus nobles come to the Alliance, asking for aid, and the Alliance does what it always does- it sells its goods for a fair price.

Many nobles balk. But when Ingrid and Ashe go home, when they go to Gaspard and Galatae territory both and begin rebuilding them, the Alliance's wealth and high regard allow them to absorb most of the empty lands around them, neighboring noble Houses wiped out by war. Ingrid is no longer a mere Countess, but a Duchess, and not of Faerghus; her flag is golden, not blue.

Her house rejoins House Daphnel, and here is history at its finest irony: House Daphnel, which had begun to sink in fame and power, is revived by its former rebels, Daphnel and Galatea joining hands under Ingrid's banner and rising to sit at the Great Council of the Alliance once again, which has expanded from five members to ten, to account for all their new land. Judith is their representative.

It's Ashe's idea to join the houses again. He loves Ingrid, as she loves him, but his wife is a military warrior, a peerless knight- and she has never been one for the game of thrones. Ashe, however, was once a thief and has always been a haggler; his common eyes are better for this work, more clever at the work. Marrying magnificent Ingrid does not change that; though, in the new Alliance sweeping Fodlan, it matters less. There is room for the exceptional commoner here, and less room for unworthy nobles.

But, regardless, he was common-born, and he is better at all this than Ingrid is. He leverages their great fame as some of the fabled Golden Deer to earn them a seat on the Allied Council, and so the land under Ashe's rule will never go hungry again, the promise Lonato made him and kept that he will now keep with his people.

As he once took care of his siblings, so too will he take care of his people- both the former Faerghi under Gaspard who fought for Leceister under his reign, and the people of Galatea, who do not trust their runaway knight. When he married Ingrid, they agreed to share their burdens, and now her people are his people, too; his honor demands no less. Not all the things of old Faerghus fade away; no culture dies in an instant.

The great stag of the East may have new grazing grounds, but it takes in part of the new growth, too, that's how eating works. You become, at least partially, what you eat, even as you transform it inside you, leave your mark on it as well. From Adrestia, the Alliance gains a love of magic and military organization; from Faerghus, a sense of honor and duty the freewheeling merchants had never had before, and no one embodies it better than Ashe.

As the years wear on- after they win Claude's war in Almyra, Gaspard veterans laughing alongside Galatea's new recruits, telling stories of the Second War of Heroes to the rookies who the war mostly ignored, their lands too poor to care about- Ashe builds a reputation as one of the greatest of its Archdukes. A knight, but it does not hamper him; no, if anything, his honor compels him forward, makes him the hardest bargainer in a land of hard bargains. He is celebrated as far away as Derdriu for his mercantile wisdom, and slowly the ancient land of Faerghus begins to centralize on the land Lonato once owned, becomes a new capital for the norhtwest.

It is a new Alliance in more than one way, and Ashe is a new man, too; this once-thief and commoner, now noblest of the Alliance's knights, makes sure his people are cared for, and in time, the ruling couple are beloved, forgiven for being oathbreakers. He takes care of them, as once, long ago, a nobleman who was also a _noble _man took care of _him_, him and his siblings, who likewise join in the newfound prosperity he enjoys.

No one under his rule ever goes hungry, and there are few rulers in history who can make that claim.

His sister becomes a fine administrator, finding bureaucratic work to her liking, but it is Ashe's brother who will have the greatest impact. He becomes a mage of great renown, and opens a school in Lonato's former territory. Ashe sends for Ferdinand's help, and the great scholar of Brigid helps Ashe's brother design a school that, in time, will eclipse all the wonders of Fhirdiad's old School of Sorcery; it will be a school that takes in commoners and the lowborn, spreading knowledge of magic through all society. Hanneman's artifical Crests, when he perfects them as his last great act, will be spread from there, too, and in his old age Ashe will see the distinctions between noble and common, always smaller in the Alliance, begin to fade entirely.

Ashe sends his own children to his brothers' school when, in time, he and Ingrid make heirs, Ingrid finally comfortable with motherhood after so long as a great knight. It had never been motherhood itself she feared, after all, but the idea of being chained down, forced to throw away her dreams just to have children for someone else's dreams.

Now, having lived a full and glorious life of battle, being hailed all around Fodlan as the peerless Magnificent Ingrid, she finds motherhood less of an imposition, finds she wishes to leave an inheritor for the new and mighty dual House of Gaspard and Galatea.

Ashe will do most of the raising until the children are old enough for combat training, for that is his nature, and Ingrid will be one to teach them battle, because that is _her _nature; but their children are happy, kept in line by Mom and comforted by Dad, and they will come out well enough to decide how to be their own kind of people, which is the only victory any parent can ask for.

And in time, when old age begins to get the best of both of them, and it is time to set down final legacies, Ashe and Ingrid write histories of Faerghus and books of chivalry and fund the building of great museums for the Kingdom, and so the two of them preserve the best of their former people in the minds and eyes of their new culture.

There is a renaissance of interest in Faerghus that will outlive both of them, one in which, thanks to their efforts, the best of the ancient traditions of their people are preserved, and the cleansing wind of change sweeps away all the rest: honor, and courage, without the mindless loyalty that drove disasters like Lonato's last moments. Devotion, and love, without the attachment to a particular set of physical characteristics.

And this last, the ideal that lasts: the image of the shining knight, not as embodied by Glenn, who died so he would not be dishonored, but as embodied by Ashe and Ingrid, who abandoned their former homes as oathbreakers to uphold the greater oath and duty that every human soul owed to justice and freedom both.

They will always be oathbreakers; but in time, that will come to be a mark of honor.

**LECEISTER'S PARALOGUE:**

**ON FAIR WIND**

Of all the victors of such a war, no one in Leceister would have bet on themselves, and that's the size of it. For all the wonder of their tremendous accomplishment, this much is true; none of the Alliance's many schemers would have ever put their money on the idea the Alliance could emerge the winner of a war between all there powers on the continent. No one would put money on such a long-shot bet.

Yet here Leceister stood, now Lord of all Fodlan. It is a thing of wonder that even the most cynical Alliance mastermind sometimes pauses, and thinks about this unbelievable thing; that in the Second War of Heroes, it was the last and the least of Fodlan's three nations that pulled off the victory. Freedom proved triumphant over glory and honor both.

It gentles them. Just a little. Power is an addictive thing. But having such power now, when before they'd had almost none, is... strange, and so they are careful with it. They remember being small, they remember it just well enough that, when they grow larger, they keep the abuses to a minimum.

And they shall have a living Goddess to watch over them.

And so Fodlan is united, but only by breaking it up. A greater council at Garreg Mach, and smaller circles of nobles, power divided and divided again, so that such an apocalyptic war cannot happen again. A freer land, where noble privileges are weakened, and commoner protections strengthened, where the valleys are less deep and the peaks less high, where someone of strength and grit might make a name for themselves despite their birth. Artificial Crests compete with natural Crests, and new technologies come from the outside world that further upset the old balance.

Even the stories are different. The knowledge that the heroes that saved Fodlan from the Beast of Enbarr, and served the Goddess Reborn, were half commoners- and that of the nobles among them, the greatest were an Almyran prince and a Brigid princess- changes the tone of stories. Now the knight that saves the distressed damsel might be a woman, now the great hero's origins might be humble, now the hero might have dark skin.

It's not much, but it's more than there was, and every transition must begin somewhere, every avalanche was once just a pebble, falling down. It is enough to begin.

It is a better Fodlan that greets the dawn.

**FINAL PARALOGUE:**

**The Last Deer**

Long centuries from the day that Claude wins his throne, two women will exit a theater in Derdriu. It was showing the latest movie, the third and final film of a great masterpiece, that had changed how cinema was made. The first film had been called Three Houses, the second White Clouds; this last film, Verdant Wind, capped off the trilogy, and had delighted moviegoers all over Fodlan.

A historical drama, it was, based on the ancient war that united Fodlan at last. The movie was being shown simultaneously in Brigid and Almyra, as people from those nations were major participants in the war, and the director was praised for extremely good translations into the native tongues of those places; further, they'd managed to cast area-appropriate actors for the non-Fodlan characters, famous actors and actresses that had greatly increased interest in those lands. It had been their little way of honoring their ancestors, they said, for family rumor held that they were related to a quiet blonde painter who had fought in that ancient war, and to the white-haired sorceress who had invented weaponcasting.

The director had told the truth as best they could, given their runtime. Many of the historical personalities involved were reduced to effectively cameos, one-off gags that historians and movie buffs alike had to spot in the background- in particular, spotting a red-headed merchant woman in the background of many scenes had damn near become a sport amongst fans. Others were shown in split seconds, entire lives summarized in seconds; a giant blonde man dancing with a smaller bluenette, a white-haired mage at Gronder shooting dark magic, a blue-haired titan dying in the light of a Javelin, a man of Duscur in Faerghi colors cooking a fine meal.

The most famous of those cameos, though, was also the one that nobody expected; one actor, portraying the last king of Faerghus, was given five minutes of screentime to portray the King on his last day at Gronder Field.

The actor was given almost no directions, as the director had not cared particularly about that part of the movie, and the actor had taken that ball and run straight to the endzone with it. His deranged, terrifying ranting, clearly filthy clothing, and amazing eyepatch colored like the old Faerghus flag in miniature had sold the audience on him to the point that he was, bizarrely, the most popular character in the entire series.

But despite a bit character stealing the most coveted prize, the main characters were also well-beloved, if less memetic. They decorated t-shirts and merchandise, and fanfiction was written of them, a trio consisting of an Almyran lord of Leceister, fond of scheming, an Adrestian songstress, and a noble knight of Faerghus, meant to represent all of Fodlan's former nations.

For villains, a broken girl of terrible resolve, her intimidating and sinister dark mage, and a shy purple-haired girl, whose transition from stuttering student to war-hardened Imperial general was a highlight of the films; this was history,but it was old history, and few knew how the tale would go, few knew that the archer would die burning at Gronder Field. She had even struck down the Almyran lord's wyvern, an act that had sparked outrage and umbrage all over the world.... particularly in Almyra, albeit with some self-awareness of themselves as “the wyvern guys.”

It had been a long time since warfare was decided by wyvern riders, it had been many years since jets and tanks and guns had replaced the old ways... but wyverns were still popular pets, and wyvern racing was still the most popular sport in Almyra. As ever, the cultural image lasted long after the reality had changed, long after wyverns were mostly things of recreation and not combat.

The acting had been excellent, the director casting a mix of famous folk and nobodies, and their research had paid off; the old couple had been quite taken with the result. They did their ancestors proud, and had done it without even consulting the few people who had actually been there. The only one consulted had been quite young when those events took place, though both the old women had been amused to see Flayn up there on the screen, portraying an Archbishop who had made so many mistakes, who had died attempting to redeem herself for the pain she had inflicted in her trauma.

( She would tell them, later, that it was her way of remembering her, and that she had cried when they shot the final scenes.)

The movie's villain had even brought the younger of the couple- by one measly year, which hardly mattered given the scale of their lives- to tears, remembering the poor, shattered girl who had reforged herself not into a grown woman, but into something like a parody of one, her rage so hot that it had burned her and everyone around her to ashes.

It had been... good, to see these movies, to... remember.

Though they would not see the proposed sequels. Enough was enough, for their old hearts, though most of the population disagreed. Fans had petitioned for a movie for the feral king called Azure Snow, and the Empress was so popular that her sequel was almost assured, with the name Crimson Flower attached... but the duo would skip those. Enough memories had been stirred by this, enough catharsis achieved; best to listen to ancient Linhardt's wisdom, as true now as it had been centuries ago when he first said it: leave the past behind.

The two women who left the theater leaned on each other, holding hands, as they had for centuries, walking until they reached a familiar, friendly little spot- a bench, before a church that had been old when these two had stepped foot in Derdriu long ago, one of the few places in Fodlan truly older than either of them. The stone had been touched up, the glass renovated, and the people inside were different- but the truly ancient know the answer to the old riddle about Theseus' ship. It was the same church.

At the moment, it had a sign up for the Midwinter Festival, with a drawing of the Goddess Reborn, handing out presents, that made the younger woman with sea-green hair smile. She had always hoped to be the kind of goddess you could draw cute pictures of, friendly and welcoming; it was proof that she had not failed her great duty yet.

They sat in silence for a few moments, breath cold fog in the night air, neither truly bothered by the conditions.

“ I miss them,” the older blonde admitted finally, with a sigh.

“ Me too,” said her lover. “ Strange to see somebody portraying me. Was I really like that?'

“ Close,” the blonde admitted, kissing her knuckles. “ You were always so... empty, my love, but there was great passion inside you, expressed badly.”

The warrior chuffed a laugh, snuggling in closer to her wife.

After a long moment, the former nun asked “ Did they portray me correctly?”

The former mercenary nodded. “ They got how submissive you used to be, but they also remembered how strong you were, that fire inside you... my sweetly sour girl.”

She kissed her hand. The other huffed in amusement.

“ Careful, you tease. I'm a married woman.”

“ Me too. We might know each other's wives.”

They giggled, the old banter of an older couple, and were silent for a moment, just holding each other. Through all the years, they had each other, some accidental magic woven when they exchanged rings and promised to be at each other's side forever; something had responded, either inside the Goddess or as some gift of a foreign power. Many couples promised love eternal; they had a chance to prove it.

As they sat, snatches of news flowed to them from a radio playing in a nearby apartment, the owner's window open to the breeze despite the chill; news about an International Space Station someone from Leceister was wanting to build with Brigid's help, weather, talk in rebuilt Duscur about joining the Alliance, stock market reports, a conversational piece about Almyran archaelogical sites that were just now being excavated, two hundred years old and, thus, much younger than either of the women listening to the news program. Talks of reactions to the Moon landing from around the world, from war-torn Dagda to solemn Morfis, washing over the two quiet women.

“ I'm glad I was one of them,” Mercedes finally said, a tear down her cheek.

“ Me too,” Byleth said, and she cried a little as well, remembering them- her first friends.

They would need to talk, tonight. The movies brought a lot of memories back, and memories made old bones ache.

But Seteth was back home too, as was Flayn, and the other dragons Byleth had learned to make in the meantime, Sothis' ancient race no longer a few scattered survivors, but come back to life, all at Byleth's hands. Be all Rhea's sins remembered, she had, at day's end, made a Goddess, even if it was not her mother, and Byleth would not fail that ancient Archbishop; she was restoring her people, one created dragon at a time.

Sometimes Byleth still wondered if she could have saved her... but Rhea had written her death into the world since long before she made Byleth, had signed her death warrant when she made a system injust and untrue and cruel; someday, it was always going to kill her for her sins. Edelgard had not existed in a vacuum, after all; she had been the end result of Rhea's society, and it was a kind of destiny made by mortal hands, that Edelgard arise to murder Rhea. It had been almost inevitable given Rhea's system, and the war was just how all Fodlan paid for the sins of its society.

But now payment was made- and it was up to her and Mercedes, and all the others, new and old, to preserver Claude's great dream, the dream he had gifted her on his deathbed, laying peacefully as age and illness took him with Hilda, ever-faithful, at his side. The dream of unity- the dream of a world without borders- the dream of the world as one.

Such a small dream. Such a hard dream to make real... but then, she was a Goddess. Only a great task would be fit for her divine might, and Claude had, in his wisdom, bequeathed such a burden to her in his last moments, so that her eternity not be boring.

( She still remembered how he had looked; he had been withered from his great age, for he had lived a long time... but his smile had reached his eyes at the end. No more did he smile false smiles, that had been the gift the world had given him for his great deeds, his heart was no longer guarded and he was able to die as free and happy as he'd always wanted to be. Hilda had been with him, of course, ever-faithful no matter the passing of decades; she was next to him, withered too, her once-pink hair the white of ancient age, destined to die soon as well. Some people were so entwined that they could not live without each other, and once Claude died, it was a given that Hilda would pass away soon. Hilda's fading away had been graceful, as the fashion-obsessed warrior would have wanted; she had simply stopped one day, so that she could rejoin her Claude, and be interred alongside him in the crypts of Almyran kings.)

They were the only ones left now, her and Mercedes and Flayn, the only Deer to make real the dream they had fought for, so long ago.

She liked to think she'd done well. She liked to think that Claude's dream was real, at least here; she hadn't spread it to the whole world yet, but in Fodlan, at least, as this movie proved, people of Almyra and Brigid were free to come and go, not subjects or invaders, but just people, the way Claude wanted. The Alliance could do the same, each nation moving alongside the other, this trio of nations not enemies but in allegiance for long years, and something like Claude's dream was thus no longer a fantasy, but the everyday reality of the common people.

It wasn't perfect... but just because something wasn't perfect didn't mean it wasn't a worthy thing, good did not demand flawlessness. Just that something was better than it would otherwise be.

And she liked to think that she, and all the Deer, had made life better.

Byleth sighed, and arose, helping Mercedes, though her own magic preserved both of them from time's ravages, left them eternally young. The movie had brought back a lot of old thoughts... but work waited for no one, and even Goddesses had to keep schedules. That space station, for example... more work, to travel the distant dark.

She had one more goal, besides Claude's dream; she wanted to take Sothis' body home. She had merged with Sothis, Sothis not wanting to remain merely a ghost in her head, choosing to finally die at last so that a new Goddess could reign in Fodlan; but Sothis deserved a better burial, she deserved to go _home._

But this was no secret agenda; she had made her goals clear from the start. She was not Rhea. Everyone knew that she wanted to find Sothis' home, and return the Sword of the Creator- which was not a sword, but an innocent's spine- and lay it to rest.

But that required work, and they had a meeting tomorrow back at Garreg Mach.

So they left, as the radio began playing an ancient hymn, her sweet wife humming along to the words, both of them still Golden Deer, and still in service to the dream a good man had once dreamed.

( And as they walked away, as the hymn hit crescendo, their shadows stood tall with fourteen others, in a circle at which no one stood higher or lower, all equal in dignity and respect, and any observer would see that they each bore a crown of antlers- and standing alongside them, a floating little ghost, that looked fondly on the woman who had proven worthy of the burden she had bestowed upon her.)


End file.
